


cutting_room_floor.txt

by panacea_knits



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon Compliant, Clicky Strap, Established Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2019-10-19 14:27:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 28,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17603066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panacea_knits/pseuds/panacea_knits
Summary: EXT. WASHINGTON MONUMENT GROUNDS / 15TH ST. ENTRANCE - DAYNat feels a pull in her right shoulder as Steve shuts the passenger door and settles his bulk into the ‘vette. A little twinge, just at the neck:pay attention.Ah. There it is.An honest-to-god smile, quirking up the corner of Steve's mouth. Not the Captain America Press Conference Special, but a real smile, small and private. The kind you'd need a crowbar to pry out of him, most days.[A missing-moments fic for TWS, CACW and IW]





	1. Natasha

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sincerely, Your Pal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3194165) by [lettered](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettered/pseuds/lettered). 



> Hi! Welcome. This fic was born of a need to watch TWS, CACW and IW without having to compartmentalize the straight-coded bits, and also to provide Steve and Bucky with a happy ending prior to the snap.
> 
> [Sincerely, Your Pal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3194165/chapters/6943961) by [lettered](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettered/pseuds/lettered) is considered First Avenger-era canon for our purposes. Many thanks to the author for permission to reference it here.
> 
> Please note this fic touches on mental health themes including depression and dissociation. More detailed warnings are provided in the chapter notes, where applicable.
> 
> There is explicit sexual content later on, including an under-negotiated power exchange. I will warn in the chapter notes when we get there.
> 
> The timeline for this story runs from the Winter Soldier opening scene to the team's arrival in Wakanda in Infinity War. 
> 
> Beautifully hand-lettered cover art by [@softestbuck](https://twitter.com/softestbuck?s=09).
> 
> Enjoy! 💜

**EXT. WASHINGTON MONUMENT GROUNDS / 15TH ST. ENTRANCE - DAY**

Nat feels a pull in her right shoulder as Steve shuts the passenger door and settles his bulk into the ‘vette. A little twinge, just at the neck: _pay attention._

Ah. There it is.

An honest-to-god smile, quirking up the corner of Steve's mouth. Not the Captain America Press Conference Special, but a real smile, small and private. The kind you'd need a crowbar to pry out of him, most days.

Nat opens her mouth, and she should know better—does know better—but it's intoxicating, seeing him like this. All her calculated poise flies out the window.

“He was cute,” she says, and before the words are out, it’s gone. Like a door slamming shut.

“Was he?” Steve says, all studied nonchalance. His gaze is fixed on the windshield, voice rock-steady. Smile packed up and tucked away, back wherever it came from.

Damn.

Should have just left it alone.

(He _was_ cute, though: nice smile, warm eyes, sweat at his collar. Must have been running Steve’s route around the Monument, poor guy.)

Nat sighs and checks her mirrors, wondering, as she sometimes does, what Steve was like, before. In the pictures he’s got this scrappy, defiant look, like one of those ankle-biting dogs that thinks it’s a mastiff.

But maybe that’s her imagination.

Not many people left now, who would know.

Steve flicks a glance out the passenger-side window and Nat has a sudden, terrible vision of the old Steve, like the pictures, but he’s drowning—no, it’s ice—no, mud—

She blinks twice, breathes out, flexes her foot on the pedal.

The ‘vette peels away from the curb.

 

* * *

 

 **EXT.** ** _LEMURIAN STAR_** **/ UPPER DECK** **\- NIGHT**

“What about the nurse that lives across the hall from you?” Nat teases over their secure line as she, Steve, and the STRIKE team stalk the deck of the ship. “She seems kind of nice."

“Secure the engine room, then find me a date,” Steve replies, a bit on the cool side. Humoring her.

“I’m multitasking,” Nat calls back as she vaults over the rail and down to the ship's lower level. She knows Steve hates this teasing, knows it's only pushing him away, but it's like a scab, or an itch. Maybe one of these days, he'll crack.

(It's not that she _needs_ his friendship, or his trust, or whatever it is. Needs are easy, predictable. It's _wanting_ things that's dangerous, and it bowls her over sometimes, just how badly she wants to see him breathe out all the way, watch his eyes unfocus a little.)

“Hey, I know,” Nat tries, “what about Cameron from tech?  Smart, handsome, you’d definitely be his type—”

“That’s enough,” Steve cuts back, and this time his voice is ice.

“Sorry,” Nat says, and means it.

 

* * *

 

**INT. CHEVY SILVERADO - DAY - TRAVELING**

It’s been a shit day, to say the least.

Nick is dead (Nick is _dead_ , how can that be?), that godforsaken metal-armed assassin is involved, and instead of kicking ass six ways from Sunday, Nat's on the run. To New Jersey, of all places.

She could just scream.

(She won't.)

At least Steve is here, acting all _cagey_ , per usual. Amidst all this chaos, his steely-eyed reticence is a familiar comfort.

“That was my best line, too,” Nat mutters, squishing further down into the passenger seat of their stolen pickup truck.

Steve takes his eyes off the road just long enough to shoot her a questioning look.

“‘Who do you want me to be?’” Nat intones, imitating herself only a little more suggestively than necessary.

“Oh. That. Well.” Steve gestures one hand vaguely in her direction.

“Not your type?” Nat asks, keeping her tone just this side of saccharine.

Steve huffs out a breath. “You know I hate it when you get like this.”

“Like what?” Nat asks, honey sweet.

“All…sultry.”

 _Sultry_. Bless his heart. They're like magnets, the two of them, north-north. Nothing sticks.

“I do know where you’re going with this,” Steve continues, serious now. “I wish you'd drop it.”

How can such a huge man sound so… helpless? Nat feels his displeasure wrap around her ribcage and _squeeze_.

Maybe this isn't the right time.

Maybe there won't ever be a right time.

She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, wills the hard line of Steve's mouth to soften.

It doesn't.

“Hey,” she says then, offering up half a smile, “I'm sorry. I'll drop it.”

No response.

“Scout's honor,” she tries. At that, Steve bites down on the beginnings of a smile, so Nat leans back against the headrest and closes her eyes. Chin tucked, hands open in her lap, she makes herself passive, quiets her mind.

Maybe he'll just die down there, whoever he is. The Steve-under-Steve.

Fine.

Nat licks her lips and Steve shifts in the driver's seat. The silence stretches out between them.

Eventually, Steve sighs.

Nat cracks one eye open. Steve is gripping the steering wheel, his breathing shallow. He looks a bit pale.

God, it has been a shit, _shit_ day.

“I appreciate you…looking out for me,” Steve says, voice low and oddly strained.

Nat holds very still. She regulates her breathing to his; inhale when he does, hold a second longer on the exhale. Coax him down.

“No problem,” she answers, light as she can. “Happy to help. Although”—and here she decides to just give him an opening, take it or leave it—“I've maybe been off-base with most of my suggestions. The Kristens and the Kates...”

Steve tenses.

Nat breathes.

The seconds tick by, and Steve is practically vibrating. She can feel his tension in her _teeth_. Her instinct is to break it, change the subject, throw out a silly quip. Instead, she presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth. _Wait it out._

She feels Steve make his decision; her throat goes slack before he’s even made a sound.

“Not necessarily,” he says, very quietly.

Nat blinks. That doesn't—she thought—

Oh.

Ohhhhh.

Okay, wow.

Nat lets a grin spread over her face. When Steve glances over, he goes an utterly perfect shade of pink.

“Are you _blushing?_ ” Nat asks, making her eyes as wide as they'll go. “That's adorable.”

Steve huffs through his nose and stares resolutely ahead, red now to the tips of his ears.

“Oh, this is great,” Nat continues. With one hand she traces an imaginary marquee in the air in front of her. “‘Captain America swings both ways—’”

“Keep it down!” Steve hisses, his tone so urgent that Nat's reaching for her gun, muscles coiled, every inch of skin prickling, eyes roaming in search of the threat.

It takes her a second to realize he's only reacting to her words.

“Jesus, Steve. We are _very_ alone.” She puts the gun away and wills her heart rate back down.

“Ears everywhere,” Steve mutters, still pink.

Nat can think of a few things to say to that, but Steve suddenly looks…tired. Spent.

No sense pushing her luck.

“Fair enough,” she allows, and closes her eyes again. Takes a few slow, careful breaths.

“Sorry I startled you,” Steve says. Nat waves him off, but he continues. “It's another hour to Lehigh. Why don't you get some rest.”

Nat sits up straighter, rubs her eyes. “No, I'm good, it's fine—”

“Natasha,” Steve warns, not quite Captain America voice, but close. “Rest. I'll wake you when we're close.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but Steve takes one hand off the wheel and sets it on her knee. “Captain's orders," he says, firm but gentle.

Nat feels the last of the fight go out of her, then. She slumps back in her seat. Steve leaves his hand on her knee. Warm. Steady.

The rumble of the highway beneath her, Nick's cold, still face behind her eyes, she rests as best she can.


	2. Natasha

**INT. SAM'S HOUSE / BEDROOM - DAY**

“I shouldn't have teased you about Peggy,” Nat says suddenly. Steve stalls in the doorway.

Sam promised breakfast and Steve must be starving, but…

 _Who's the girl_ , she'd said, of Peggy Goddamn Carter. That warrants an apology.

Steve steps back into the room and sits down beside her on the bed. “It's okay,” he says, but his eyes are downcast.

“It's really not,” Nat insists, folding her hands in her lap. “It was rude. I'm sorry. I've seen the footage, I know you were…”

Nat trails off when she realizes she actually _doesn't_ know.

“Close,” she finishes, wincing a bit at her own choice of words.

Steve doesn't seem to notice, just stares at his hands for a while. “It was complicated,” he says eventually. “Especially after…”

He doesn't finish his thought, just rolls his shoulders and sighs. “It's okay if you don't understand,” he says, finally looking up.

Words tangle in her throat, nudge against the back of her teeth. _I want to. Help me. Let me in._

“How is she?” Nat asks instead.

“Pegs? She's okay.” Steve drops his gaze again. “Palliative care. They're keeping her comfortable.” He scrubs one hand roughly over his face, then sets it back in his lap. “I don't go as often as I should—”

“Nonsense,” Nat interrupts, tucking her legs under her and scooting closer. Her knees bump against Steve's hip. Gently she lifts his chin with one hand, turning his face toward her. “You're doing your best.”

Steve meets her eyes and on impulse Nat runs a thumb over his cheekbone. His eyelids flutter and Nat's heart goes off-rhythm for a beat, one pulse crashing up against the other. He feels brittle somehow, as though he might shatter if she presses any harder.

Suddenly she sees him in her mind's eye: aged and frail, barely taller than the walker he leans on. Just skin and bones, damp stringy hair hanging over his eyes—

Nat drops her hand as a shudder works its way up her spine.

Steve doesn't seem to notice. “Hey, Nat?” he asks, turning his hands over in his lap.

“Yeah?”

“Do you, uh, I mean—we don't have to, but—”

Steve goes a little pink, and _oh, shit._

_I do care about you, Steve—_

_It's not the right time—_

_I don't feel the same way—_

Steve looks right at her and Nat's heart strains just on the edge of breaking.

“Do you hug?”

He winces when he says it, a little furrow perfectly centered on his forehead, and her heart cracks in half.

“Yeah, Steve. I hug.”

Steve lets out the breath he'd been holding, so she reaches out with both hands and pulls him forward, cradling his head over her heart. He wraps his arms around her waist but doesn't cross them, letting his forearms run parallel up her back instead.

 _So I won't be trapped_ , Nat thinks, and both halves of her heart drop down into her knees, through the bed, through the floor, down and down into the hot molten core of the earth.

Steve holds so still, not even leaning his full weight on her, just breathing against her chest. She pets his hair, one soothing stroke after another. Gradually his breathing slows and his grip loosens.

When he lifts his head and approximates a smile, Nat runs her thumb over his cheek again. He still hasn't cried— _since when_ , she wonders—but he feels more solid this time.

“So,” Nat says, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper and jutting her chin toward the kitchen. “What's up with you and Mr. Gorgeous?”

Steve barks out a laugh. “You're impossible,” he says, shoving gently at her shoulder and sitting up straight. “Nothing's _up_ , we just met.”

There's that smile, though, and Nat's heart, whole, races four thousand miles back up into her body to smack wetly against her ribcage.

“Uh-huh, sure,” she says, twitching one eyebrow.

“We're just friends,” Steve insists, and then _rolls his eyes_ , the punk. “I'm making a friend.”

He says it so simply, sounds so proud of himself; Nat wants to put a gold star sticker on his forehead.

_Wait, that can't be right. He wouldn't want—_

_Oh._

Would there have been a gold star in the window, for Steve? There must have been, he must have had—

Nat shakes her head to clear it, keeping the movement as small as she can and hoping Steve doesn't notice. His smile’s turned sad, though, as if he'd followed the dark turn of her thoughts.

“Reminds me of someone, is all."

Nat arranges her face into something open and puts a little lilt in her voice. “That so, Rogers?”

Steve huffs a quiet laugh.

Nat leans in. “ _Someone_ must have been quite the looker,” she says, tilting her head toward the door and making her eyebrows give a little jump.

Steve laughs again, a bit more sound in it this time. “If you like him so much...” he starts, matching her teasing tone.

“Wouldn't dream of it, pal.” Nat raises both hands, palms out. “All yours. I'll keep my distance—”

Something about that hits Steve the wrong way and he snaps his head up, mouth pinched into a frown. “Don't.”

 _Don't what?_ “I just meant—”

Steve scrubs at his face again. “Sorry. I've just…” It takes him a moment to collect his thoughts. Nat waits. “I've had about enough _distance._ ”

“Okay,” Nat says, tentative. “No distance.” She's missing something, she knows, but Steve doesn't seem inclined to explain. He's looking at his hands again.

“Let's go eat,” Nat offers, and then on a whim: “Maybe Sam made pancakes in the shape of our enemies, and we can bite their heads off and eat them.”

That startles a chuckle out of Steve, so when he looks up, Nat pulls her mouth into a sneer and gives a single, mighty gnash of her teeth.

 _Success._ Steve throws his head back and laughs, a full-body thing, one hand over his heart.

Nat wills the pores of her very bones to open, drink him in, feed him on her marrow.

Breakfast turns out to be eggs.


	3. Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mental health trigger warning, spoiler notes at the end.
> 
> Note: This chapter is written from Sam's POV; I am white. Critical feedback from POC readers is welcome, if you spot any issues.

**EXT. DOWNTOWN ROOFTOP (WASHINGTON D.C.) - DAY**

“Lillian,” Steve's voice crackles in Sam's earpiece. “Lip piercing, right?”

“Yeah, she's cute.”

Natasha's “ _don't you think?_ ” is implied, and frankly it's only been a day with these two and already Sam has so. many. questions.

  1. Is Steve one of those sickeningly thoughtful people who remembers the middle name, favorite color, preferred room temperature and coffee order of every person he meets? _Likely._
  2. Can every Avenger turn on a dime between battle-ready and barb-trading, or is it just these two? _Jury's out._
  3. Does Steve “Meat Stack with a Heart of Gold” Rogers actually need help getting a date? For that matter, is Natasha actually trying to help or is this some weird hetero mating/hazing ritual? _Unclear._



That's just the tip of the iceberg, really, but Sam's too busy plucking SlimyAss McNaziSauce out of the sky to keep going down the list. The guy’s screaming bloody murder, so just for fun Sam flies an extra lap around the building.

It is _good_ to be back in the suit.

“Yeah,” Steve says in Sam’s ear, “I'm not ready for that.”

“Hm,” Nat replies, a sort of verbal shrug, “more for me.”

 _Oh_ , Sam thinks as he sweeps up to the roof with Sitwell in tow, _this is going to be fun._

 

* * *

 

**INT. SAM'S CAR - DAY - TRAVELING**

“So is there a club, or…?” Sam looks up as he says it, and in the rearview mirror Natasha blinks once, then twice.

Sam shrugs and looks back to the road. When he glances up again, her grin's turned wicked.

Sam grins back, _signal received_ —

“What kind of cl—”

Sitwell's voice chokes off abruptly behind him, though Sam didn't hear anything and when he checks the mirror, Natasha doesn't appear to have moved.

Steve, meanwhile, is staring out the front passenger window, lost in thought. Figuring out how to save all their lives, probably. Sam leaves him to it.

“Should we have meetings, do you think?” Nat asks a moment later. Sam glances up in the rearview again, and she's examining the nails of one hand. He can't see the other one, but Sitwell's looking pale, so.

“For sure. I can do Tuesdays,” Sam offers. _Support Group for Gay-Ass Superheroes, Room 106_. Has a nice ring to it.

Nat makes a non-committal sound.

They pass a few more moments in silence, then Steve says “Uh,” and looks over at Sam.

Steve's frowning, which shouldn't be cute given that he's supposed to be leading them all to victory (or at least to not-death...?) but Sam's only human and the man is—

Look, ‘man’ isn't even the right word. ‘Statue of Adonis crossed with a labradoodle,’ more like.

Steve says “Uh,” again, so Sam says, “What's up?”

“Oh. Um. Nn—mm.” Steve goes a little pink, which, okay, that's a thing, apparently.

Sam cocks an eyebrow and Steve coughs and looks back out the window on his side of the car. When a minute goes by without Steve saying anything, Sam takes a guess.

“Not exactly the 1930s around here, huh.”

“No, it's not that,” Steve says right away, and that's a relief, at least. Steve seems pretty quick on the 21st-century uptake, but all the same, Sam's not keen to take him through 101 Reasons Why Homophobia is Uncool Now.

“Um. It's just, uh…Wednesdays are better for me?”

Steve says it like a question, little tick up in his voice at the end, and it's…look, it's the most precious goddamn thing Sam's ever heard, and then just to be cruel Steve flicks a glance up through his lashes— _who gave him the right to have eyelashes like that_ , _Sam would like to have a word_ —so Sam takes one hand off the wheel to punch Steve in the arm, and that makes Steve give one of his little blush-laughs, and _that_ makes Sam go all queasy and ugh, this is just _gross_ and—

“What are you gu—”

“Shut _up_ ,” Sam bites out, just as there's a rustle of fabric in the back and Sitwell gives a pained grunt. Natasha makes an apologetic face in the mirror, but it's too late, Steve's gone serious again. He gets bigger, somehow, too, taking up more space in Sam's peripheral vision.

“HYDRA doesn't like leaks,” Sitwell continues, apparently unable to shut his shit mouth.

“So why don't you try sticking a cork in it,” Sam snaps, fresh out of patience.

Natasha leans forward between the seats. “Insight's launching in sixteen hours. We're cutting it a little bit close, here.”

“I know,” Steve says, all business now. “We'll use him to bypass the DNA scans and access the Helicarriers directly.”

“What? Are you crazy? That is a terrible, terrible idea,” Sitwell is screeching and _look, jackass_ —

There's a sudden noise on the roof and shit, something's up there—someone's—shit, the window—oh _shit_ —

 

* * *

 

**INT. ARMORED VAN - DAY - TRAVELING**

Okay, this is not going well.

Three of them, cuffed, armored van, Sam and Natasha on one side and Steve on the other, two guards...Sam would have liked their odds under other circumstances, but Steve looks like his soul has up and left his body and Natasha's bleeding half to death from a gunshot wound inflicted, apparently, by _Bucky I-shit-you-not Barnes._

That explains why Steve's mind is elsewhere— _inseparable on both schoolyard and battlefield_ , etc, Sam knows the story—but Sam's pretty sure they're on their way to an extrajudicial execution and they need a plan, fast. His mind races: Assuming they can get out of the van, he'll need to keep Natasha from bleeding out while possibly dragging or carrying Steve, who might not be able to walk, if—right, he couldn't do it alone, but maybe with the guard here who turned out to be on their side—

“Who's this guy?” asks the aforementioned guard, and her voice brings Sam back into focus.

“Sam Wilson,” he answers.

“Agent Hill.”

“Pleasure, ma'am.”

“Okay, I like him,” Hill says, and winks, because apparently no one takes anything seriously around here. She pulls out something that looks like...a lightsaber? Whatever. _Roll with it._

“We need to move,” Hill is saying. “Cap, can you—Cap?”

Nothing. Hill looks to Sam.

“Steve,” Sam tries, and then louder, “ _Steve_.”

Still nothing. Steve's a glassy-eyed husk, worse than before. Dissociating, maybe. Sam looks back at Hill and a bright spark of panic hops between them, zip-zap.

Just then, Natasha, wordless and without opening her eyes, reaches one foot out and drags the toe of her boot up the inside of Steve's ankle, snail’s pace and gentle as anything.

Steve's eyes flutter and he mouths, soundless, “Buck.”

Sam blinks.

_Oh._

_That's, uh. That's not good._

_Shit._

Natasha drops her foot but her eyes stay closed; Sam doesn't think she saw. Hill, though...her hands are frozen on the lightsaber-ish thing, eyes locked on Steve's face.

What happens next, Sam can't quite explain.

Steve opens his eyes and looks once around the van. Takes everything in. Raises his cuffed wrists and it seems like he's about to say something, but then he looks at his hands—no, not his hands exactly, more like his forearms—and it's, it's the sound Sam can't describe, half of the word 'no’ choked out with something between a moan and a growl, like the air getting punched out of Steve's lungs, and he sort of…vibrates, and he's staring down at his arms—definitely not the hands, it's the arms, whatever it is, _does he not like having arms, or_ —and then he's gasping like he can't breathe and his eyes roll back in his head and he's got his hands balled into fists but then suddenly he _does_ breathe, an impossibly huge breath with the air practically screaming into his lungs. Then his eyes snap forward and finally his body stills on the exhale, forced, deliberate. His hands unclench and his face…it's not that it relaxes. It just sort of…sets.

Steve locks eyes with him and Sam's stomach goes sideways like when you see something dead. Beside him, Natasha’s saucer-eyed and trembling.

“L—Let's get out of here,” Hill says, voice catching at first but steadying fast, and thank hell _someone's_ got their shit together, because this is way above Sam's pay grade—

Oh, hey, would you look at that.

It actually _is_ a lightsaber.

Neat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler notes: In the segment in the armored van, Steve dissociates briefly. He comes to when Nat touches him very gently on the ankle. He thinks it's Bucky at first, which Sam and Hill notice but Nat does not. 
> 
> Steve then has a panic attack when he registers his post-serum body. The panic attack is described in some detail from Sam's perspective. Steve appears to be distressed and briefly has difficulty breathing. 
> 
> Steve recovers quickly and without any physical harm to himself or others, but it's clear that he numbs out rather than calming down properly, and the chapter ends there. 
> 
> (Steve will be okay later on, promise. 💜)


	4. Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless thanks to my twitter pals for the encouragement and pompoms; I was stuck and y'all unstuck me. Hat tip as well to [@odetteandodile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/odetteandodile/pseuds/odetteandodile) for a crucial and well-timed conversation.
> 
> Trigger warning for brief references to combat-related PTSD and general / hypothetical self-harm, spoiler notes at the end.

**INT. UNDERGROUND S.H.I.E.L.D BUNKER - DAY**

The air is stale in the cavern-turned-headquarters, and everyone seems to be holding very still. Steve is standing—looming, really—at one end of the conference table, and if Sam’s own stance is a bit, ah, _looming-adjacent_ , well, what can you do.

“Would you give us a minute,” Steve says, voice rough.

At the other end of the table, Nick Fury—the legend in the flesh, though that flesh appears to have seen better days—bristles in his seat. For a moment Sam wonders if there's going to be a fight— _was it a bluff, about Cap giving the orders?_ —but then Fury sighs and turns to Agent Hill.

“Let's take a walk,” he says, and moves to stand. There's a shuffling of chairs and a snapping of cases and then Hill follows Fury out of the alcove. She pauses on her way to lean down and say something in Natasha's ear. Sam takes a step back so he won't be standing so close behind them, and ends up with his back against a steel support beam. When Natasha nods up from her chair, Hill squeezes her uninjured shoulder before walking away.

When they're finally alone, or as alone as one can get at one end of a _huge underground cave_ , Steve sighs and crosses his arms over his chest. It makes his pecs bulge under his dust-covered jacket, but now is very much not the time to be noticing that, so Sam picks a spot on the floor in front of his feet and considers it intently.

There's a long silence.

Natasha's the one to break it. Gently, she starts: “Steve—”

“I'm compromised,” he cuts her off, startling clarity in his voice. Sam looks up; Steve's eyes are hard and almost sparkling.

“What—”

“Bucky. I'm compromised.”

“Okay,” Natasha says carefully. She's looking at him sidelong, testing out words. “Anyone would be. Your best friend—”

“ _Natasha_ ,” Steve bites out, and he must hear the sudden desperation in his own voice because his gaze jumps from Nat to Sam and then back to Nat again. A second later he squares his hips and actually _juts out his chin,_ which Sam would like to point out makes _no goddamn sense_ given that he's, what, three times her size—

 _Used to be smaller_ , Sam thinks suddenly, and just then something in Natasha goes slack.

“Oh,” she says, and then softer, “oh, Steve.”

Steve stiffens behind his wall of forearm, and the dissonance is too much, waves of helpless defiance rolling off his huge, solid body, grief in his eyes but the rest of his face stern and set. Sam feels a sudden and unsettling urge to claw at his own skin.

“I need some air,” Steve grits out, and thank hell for that, if they can all just get some space for a minute, Sam needs to breathe, needs to _think_ —

“Bullshit,” Natasha says, voice as sharp now as Steve's.

“Uh—”

“Come here.” It's a command.

When Steve doesn't move, Natasha scoots her chair back a little and turns her left arm out, palm up. It's her injured side, and Sam sees what must be a ripple of pain work its way across her shoulders.

Steve drops his arms to his sides, but his feet stay planted, and for a moment Sam wonders if they'll be trapped down here forever, stuck at a permanent impasse between Steve's grief and—what, exactly? Herculean stubbornness, sure, but there's something else, too, like he's looking out at the world from behind thick panes of glass—

“ _Now_ , Steve,” Natasha says, and points to the ground next to her feet.

Sam feels his eyebrows jump at that, and Steve flicks a startled glance his way. Sam takes a second to collects himself, then shrugs. _Can't help you here, pal._

Natasha snaps her fingers and points to the floor again— _wow, that’s, uh, that just happened_ —and the sound startles Steve into compliance. His gaze snaps to the floor and he takes two steps forward, ending up beside Natasha's chair.

“Uh,” he says again.

“Down.”

“What—”

“Just get _down_ here, Steve, I can't—”

“Right, I, sorry—like this?” Steve asks, and lowers himself to his knees, facing her side.

“Yes, like that, come here,” Natasha says, her voice turned warm and affectionate now. She gets her hand in his hair and tugs him forward so his forehead is resting on her thigh. She pets his head once, twice, and he fidgets, arms hanging awkwardly at his sides, but then she moves her hand down and scrapes her nails at the base of his skull, winds her hand in the hairs there and _pulls_ , not rough, just steady, and Steve lets out a shuddering breath. He brings one arm up to grip the back of her chair, snakes the other around her ankle.

“There you go,” Nat murmurs, giving another scrape-twist-pull at the nape of his neck. Steve presses his face into her leg. “There you go, sweetheart.”

Steve groans then, pushes against her so hard that she huffs in pain and Sam feels rooted to the spot, this is all _wrong_ somehow, it shouldn't be possible—these two closed-off people, all sharp edges and strained, suspicious looks—they shouldn't be able to, but they are, and any second now Steve's shoulders will start shaking and that is _not good_ , when Steve's in a room it's like he's holding the walls up and if he crumbles now, surely they'll all be crushed, buried down here in the cold and the dust.

Sam holds his breath and Steve...doesn't.

Doesn't crumble.

His shoulders don't shake and he doesn't sob, he's just breathing, ragged at first but then gradually slower, steadier. Natasha's stroking her hand through his hair, just carding it back and forth, her movements as slow and rhythmic as her little shushing sounds.

Sam sinks down to the floor, leans against the steel beam at his back and closes his eyes.

When he opens them again a few minutes later—has it been minutes, or hours? Minutes, surely—Steve's breathing is soft and even, and Natasha's hand is mostly still, just making little strokes with her thumb as though to tuck his hair behind his ear.

Stroke, tuck. Stroke, tuck.

Steve tilts his head into Natasha's hand, the first movement Sam's seen him make since she started, and Nat slides her fingers to the back of his neck again and gives one last scrape-twist-pull. Steve makes a little punched-out noise and Sam, watching, feels…empty, too, all of a sudden, the usual tumble-forward of his mind just…still. It's only for a second, really, but it stretches out, all white light and static in his head.

Steve takes one last sighing breath, releases his grip on the chair and sits back on his heels. Natasha leans back, too, and from his spot on the floor Sam blinks and shakes his head. He feels fuzzy around the edges, like waking from a dream.

“Thank you,” Steve says, and his voice, too, is thick as if from sleep. Sam's heart rolls over and plays dead.

“Mm,” is all Natasha's reply.

Steve looks at her for a moment longer, then sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “I just need to…” He gestures vaguely up and out.

“Mm-hmm.”

Steve stands then, pushes himself up, dusts off and turns to leave, and when he spots Sam in the threshold his eyes go wide.

“Oh—”

“Uh-huh,” Sam manages, then gathers his wits enough to give Steve a look that he hopes comes off as warm and just a little bit teasing.

It must work, because Steve blushes—the man will blush at  _anything_ , apparently—and looks at the floor.

This all suddenly feels impossibly familiar, Sam sitting on the ground, leaning back, winded and looking up at Steve.

So what if the black canvas jacket doesn't cling to him quite like his too-small workout wear?

So what if he looks about as wrung out as a decades-old dishcloth. Sam doesn't care. Sam loves him.

Sam is in love with a dishcloth.

 _Great_.

Steve moves then, as if to pass him by and _oh, I don't think so, buddy._

Sam reaches his hand out and up, and Steve stops and gives him a deer-in-headlights look.

Sam roll his eyes. “Don't be like that, man. Help me up.”

Apparently the key to getting through to Steve is ordering him around, because Steve moves instantly and _hoooo, boy_ does Sam not need to be thinking about that right now, _has there ever been a less appropriate time_ , my God.

Also: _what?_  This all seems wildly incongruent with Steve's general…Steve-ness… but, you know what, screw it. _I am large, I contain multitudes_ , etc.

And, yeah, let's face it: Steve is nothing if not large.

The thought makes Sam smile, and that makes Steve smile back—just a hint at the corners, really, but it's there—and he reaches down and helps Sam up, and then a moment later he's gone.

Sam's hand is still warm from Steve's grip when out of nowhere Natasha leans forward and retches violently, clutching the edge of the table with one hand and pressing the other into her wounded shoulder. Sam’s at her side before he realizes he's moved, crouched beside her and looking up into her face.

“Hey there, hey, you okay?” he asks, searching her eyes. She turns to avoid his gaze.

“It's the painkillers,” she says, grimacing, pale and defensive, so Sam shifts his weight back and stands, pulls out a chair and leans back in it, feet crossed at the ankles and one arm on the table. Comfortable.

“What,” he says, more statement than question.

Natasha gives half a laugh along with what Sam's begun to think of as her trademark smile, like a cross between a sneer and a hungry look.

“Is this an interrogation?” she asks, but there's no bite in it, so Sam doesn't respond, just watches her and waits.

Some kind of war happens on Natasha's face, or a skirmish, more like, quick and brutal. When it's over she locks eyes with Sam, pupils wide.

“What,” he says again. “Talk to me.”

The last of her mask slides off, and there's pain and grief and panic in her eyes, and something else, too. She looks away again. Guilt.

“I should have known—”

“You couldn't have,” Sam says, startled by his own vehemence.

Natasha snarls at the interruption; her eyes glitter and her tone turns cruel. “He was a _ghost story_ ” she says, sneering at the words, “If I'd been paying attention”—her voice breaks—“ _fifty_ _years_ he's been out there—longer—and Steve—” she chokes off, gags.

“You couldn't have known,” Sam says again, and his tone comes out even this time.

Natasha's eyes go borderline murderous, and Sam spares a moment to wonder if she actually knows what he does for a living.

She's boring into him with her gaze, hot and hateful, and Sam doesn't doubt that in fighting shape she could kill him without even breathing. But anger takes a lot of energy, and she's pale from blood loss and exhaustion.

Besides, Sam lances wounds like this for breakfast. Patches them up after lunch. He just watches her.

She runs out of steam, finally, flicking her eyes to the side and licking her lips, and there they are: two tears tracking one after the other down her face, left-right.

Natasha lets go of her shoulder to swipe at her cheeks, and then she laughs a little, hollow.

Sam waits another three breaths. Four.

“He won't survive this,” she says then, quiet, all the fight gone out of her.

Sam knows the chemistry of this, rage burning off and just the cold swell of regret left behind. Riley's face flickers behind his eyes, just for a second, there and gone.

“He'll self-destruct,” Natasha's saying, desperate and resigned all at once, “I've seen this, I—you can't—when someone comes back, but not—”

“—but not all the way,” Sam finishes for her.

If she had forgotten what he does for a living, maybe she'll remember now.

Natasha bites her lip. “He won't see it that way.”

“I'm sure we can—”

“You don't _know_ him,” she interrupts, and ouch, that hurts, even if it's technically true, “he'll…he won't make it.”

She looks right in his eyes and suddenly Sam sees it, too: Steve railing against reality, flinging himself against a concrete wall until all his bones are broken.

_They'll knit right back up, he'll keep right on going, but after a while they won't heal right, and he'll end up crooked, bloodied and broken, all the light gone out of him—_

Natasha moves to stand. “I have to—” she starts, then winces and falls back in her chair.

“I've got it,” Sam says, meeting her eyes and  weighting his words with as much feeling as he dares.

Natasha stills and searches his eyes for a moment, and she must see it there, some of it, all of it maybe, because she softens and says, “Okay.”

Sam pushes himself to a stand. His feet feel heavy as he starts to walk away.

He's about to step out of the alcove and into the cavern beyond when Natasha's voice stops him at the threshold.

“Sam.”

He turns. "Yeah?"

There's a pause.

“Good luck,” she says, but that wasn't it, Sam can tell. He waits. She averts her eyes, clears her throat.

“Could you, um…Agent Hill…”

“Of course.” Sam turns away, mission clear. Find Hill. Find Steve.

He feels like he's holding something impossibly fragile in his hands, a tiny skeleton maybe, or a scale model whose glue hasn't set.

He holds his breath as he steps out of the alcove.

The walls, at least, stay standing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning spoiler notes: Toward the end of the chapter, after Steve leaves, Natasha expresses guilt about not having figured out the Winter Soldier's identity. Sam and Natasha fear that Bucky's trauma is too great and he will never return fully to his former self. Sam envisions Steve destroying himself by repeatedly crashing into a wall. Sam agrees to try to talk to Steve.


	5. Sam

**INT. HOSPITAL ROOM - DAY**

“On your left,” Steve rasps, and Sam smiles and marks his place in his book. Steve groans and starts to move a little, hands first, stretching his fingers and rolling his wrists.

 _Awake for real this time_ , Sam thinks, and shuts the book in his lap. Steve's been slipping in and out for hours, each time waking with a start and fixing Sam with wild eyes.

 _Nat, where's Nat_ —

 _Nick_ — _are they_ — _Hill_ — _Rumlow_ —

 _Bucky_ — _he was there_ — _Sam, I hurt him_ —

That one had been the worst, Steve’s choked-off voice, _I hurt him, I broke it_ — _his arm_ — _not the metal one_ —

So Sam had explained, as calmly as he could, everything he knew: _He pulled you out, we found his footprints, lost the trail. He would have had to swim, it can't have been that bad_ —

But Steve wouldn't listen, shaking his head— _No, it snapped, I was there, I heard it_ —and finally Sam had thrown up his hands and said, _Look, I don't know what to tell you, maybe he's got your whole_ _healing thing going on._

Steve had blanched at that so Sam had looked away and when he looked back Steve was unconscious again, or maybe he just had his eyes closed, who knows. In that moment Sam had felt so _angry_ , just furious: Steve here with three bullet holes and a stab wound, battered face, and he wouldn't shut up about what he'd _done_.

The anger hadn't lasted. Something about the very fact of it, that Sam could even _be_ angry at Steve, that he could feel anything about Steve other than, oh, _covetous awe_ …that had been its own strange relief and Sam had laughed in spite of himself.

That was maybe half an hour ago, and Steve's woken up twice since then, both times with the same line, _On your left_.

Well, three times, if you count this one.

Sam's not planning to say anything about it.

Instead he watches as Steve blinks around the room, then reaches up to touch his own face. Steve's thumb presses gingerly on his bruised-purple cheekbone, then runs over the line of stitches knitting out from the corner of his mouth.

He's a mess, and now he’s twisting at the waist, trying to sit up straighter in his cot—

“Hey, take it easy,” Sam says as Steve groans and lies back, face gone pale again. Sam sets his book aside and scoots his chair up next to the bed.

“Can I get you something? Glass of water?” Sam realizes he's not sure what the protocol is for supersoldiers with abdominal wounds.

“Nah,” Steve says, “thanks, though. What about you? Have you eaten?”

Before Sam can answer, Steve's brow furrows. “Hang on,” he says, visibly rewinding, “did I…”

Sam leans back in his chair and wills himself to keep a straight face.

“ _On your left_. Did I say that more than once?”

Sam bites the inside of his cheek and shrugs.

“Oh, no,” Steve groans, “how many times?”

Sam gives up on hiding his grin. “Not telling.”

“Come _on,_ Sam,” Steve pleads, like his dignity depends on it.

“ _Fine_ ,” Sam gives in, faux exasperated. “Three.”

Steve groans again and covers his face with his hands.

“Don't sweat it,” Sam laughs, “you were unconscious. Besides, I like a man who commits.”

Sam resists the urge to wink, but Steve laughs anyway, he’s peeking out at Sam from behind his fingers now and there's affection in his eyes, warmth, Sam can see it—Steve only has two settings, _inscrutable_ and _open book_ —and in that moment a whole future rolls out in Sam's mind, unbidden: playful smiles and tousled hair, morning light… something else on Steve's face, eyes closed, pink mouth, bite marks on his shoulder, panting, taste of sweat...and then the two of them, later, side by side, Steve standing tall with his shoulders back and the sun on his face, booming voice, rapt attention of the crowd and Sam beside him, wings folded, proud.

In his mind's eye Sam conjures a doorway. A wooden frame draws up around him, centered over his head. He stands at the threshold—one last look—then steps back and closes the door.

Around him the room comes back into focus. Steve's expression has changed, his hands fallen back into his lap.

“Sam, I—”

“Don't even start,” Sam says, and Steve looks down and chews on his lip.

“So you're taken,” Sam tries again, and makes himself shrug. “All the best ones are.”

He didn't think his voice would break but it does, a little. Steve pretends not to notice.

Sam takes a steadying breath.

“How long?” he asks, and his voice comes out a little rougher than he'd hoped, but not as broken as he'd feared.

Steve twines his hands in his lap. “Depends how you count.”

“Tell me,” Sam says, a little more forcefully than he meant to. “I mean...if you want.”

Steve makes a soft sound. His hands are still moving, one thumb pressing slow half-circles in the meat of the opposite palm. Something stirs in the back of Sam's mind, _didn't like his arms, but his hands are okay_ —

“I'd loved him forever,” Steve says then, and Sam's train of thought derails completely. “Bucky, though, he, uh…It took him a while.”

Sam takes a moment to collect himself.

“Before you got, um...?” Sam trails off, gesturing vaguely up and down Steve's body.

Steve shakes his head. “I wish. Then again, I wish none of this…well, you know.”

Now it's Steve's turn to gesture vaguely at himself, glancing at Sam long enough to give him a sad smile.

Sam nods, though he doesn't know, not really, probably no one does—

Suddenly Sam hears his own voice in his head. _He doesn't know you_ …

Guilt gnaws at Sam's insides. _He's not the kind you save_ , he'd said, what right did he have—Steve hadn't even flinched—

Steve's soft chuckle interrupts his thoughts.

“I used to get so jealous,” he says.

“Oh?” Sam makes himself reply, careful to keep his voice steady.

Steve shrugs. “Love makes people small, sometimes.”

Sam feels winded all of a sudden. _That it does_ , he tries to say, but when he opens his mouth, no sound comes out. He clears his throat again.

“So, after...?”

Steve nods, and there's a wistful look on his face, and the start of a smile.

Sam cocks an eyebrow. “Oh, I see how it is. Big guy like you, suddenly he can't resist…”

Sam rolls his eyes for good measure and to his delight, Steve immediately protests.

“It wasn't like that! We...I mean, before, it was—there were other _reasons_ —”

“Hey, man, relax,” Sam laughs, “I don't need all the gory details.”

Steve settles back down and all of a sudden Sam has second thoughts. “Unless,” he adds hastily, “I mean, if it's important to you, to um, share...”

Now it's Steve's turn to laugh. “No, no,” he says, “wouldn't want to make you blush.”

Something in his voice makes Sam wonder. “Why do I get the feeling you _could_?”

Steve laughs again and plays it up, bites his lip a little and looks Sam up and down, a slow drag that makes Sam turn his face away, and when he turns back Steve's eyes are practically glittering, his grin nothing short of wolfish. Sam huffs a breath and tilts his chair back a little.

“Folks think they know you, huh,” he tries, relieved when there's only the slightest squeak in his voice.

Steve's face softens and he gives a little shrug.

“Do they?” Sam asks, leaning back in, “I mean…does anyone?”

Steve shakes his head. “Just Buck,” he says, then thinks for a moment. “Nat, a little.”

Sam's about to respond when Steve smiles again, open and sweet this time, looking right in his eyes.

“And you, now,” he says, very softly.

Sam feels a rush of warmth, like a breeze on the back of his neck. In his mind's eye he turns and looks over his shoulder.

Behind him, a new door swings open.

Head held high, he smiles and steps inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who missed the opening note, this fic is set in lettered's gorgeous, heartbreaking [Sincerely, Your Pal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3194165/chapters/6943961) 'verse. Read that for a play-by-play of Steve and Bucky's First Avenger-era relationship, taken as canon for our purposes. 💜


	6. Natasha

**EXT. CEMETERY - DAY**

Nat's halfway back to the car when her phone buzzes in her pocket. It's Steve, apparently, but that doesn't make sense—she's sure her exit was flawless, leaving the boys to plan their dramatic rescue while she heads off to lie low, waiting for the aftermath of the S.H.I.E.L.D data dump to blow over.

Her phone buzzes again and Nat executes a quick scan of her surroundings. All quiet—it is a graveyard, after all—save the rustle of leaves in the trees and the chirp of a few songbirds.

She picks up the phone. “Romanoff—”

“Natasha. What the _fuck_.”

Nat's eyebrows fly up just about to her hairline. Steve's tone isn't accusatory, exactly, but it is, uh, _firm_. And he doesn't normally swear.

“Um—”

“Get back here.” It's not voiced like an order, and he doesn't sound angry, but Nat can tell he doesn't mean it as a suggestion, either.

Steve hangs up before she can say anything else, so Nat pockets her phone and looks back the way she came, lifting one hand to shield her eyes from the afternoon sun. She can still make out Steve's silhouette: wide stance, arms folded, presumably still holding the folder of intel she'd gathered, though she can't quite tell from here. She can see Sam, too: a slightly smaller shape next to Steve, same wide stance, arms crossed, looking her way.

 _Quite the pair,_ Nat thinks as she turns and starts walking back toward them, though _trudging_ might be a better term. Her feet feel heavy; there'd been a comfort in her retreat, simple and clean...goodbyes were easy that way. This will be messier.

She arrives back at Nick's grave—his _empty_ grave, thank God—with her shoulders up around her ears. Twin impulses shoot up her sides. Relaxation on her left, where Sam's gone back to leaning against the large tree they're standing under, his demeanor casually observant. Tension on her right, where Steve's gaze is cool, the line of his jaw just this side of tense.

Nat kicks one hip out, leaning into the asymmetry, and puts a touch of extra velvet in her voice.

“What can I do for you, Rogers?”

Her—what did he call it? Sultriness?—has no effect on Steve, of course. He uncrosses one arm and extends the thick folder toward her. Russian text and the number seventeen stare up at her from the brown paper cover.

“Here,” he says flatly, and Nat's pulse skitters in her throat.

“Uh, I thought—”

“No, no,” Steve interrupts, the barest edge of sarcasm in his voice, “you don't think I should follow it, then take it back.” He's still holding the folder out.

Nat puts her hands up and shifts her weight back, searching Steve's eyes. He stares right back and they're silent for a moment, the hairs on the back of Nat's neck standing on end. It's too open here, not enough cover, and besides, everyone knows too much now, and—

 _And Nick_ , she can't help thinking, can't shake the awareness that they're standing over his _grave_ —

Steve must take pity on how mixed-up she's gotten, because he pulls the folder back to his chest and crosses his arms over it again.

From his post against the tree, Sam's watching her too; two pairs of eyes trained on her now, one brown, one blue.

Nat collects herself as best she can, squares her hips and stacks her vertebrae up in a perfect line.

“Steve,” she tries, no velvet this time, “I heard you.”

In her peripheral vision, Sam shifts and narrows his eyes. Steve frowns.

“On the helicarrier,” she continues, “you ordered Hill—”

“That's none of your business,” Steve says, and the frost in his voice hits Nat like a sudden gust of wind slamming the front door open. Anger bubbles up from her gut and burns on her tongue.

“None of my business?” she echoes, her own voice rising in pitch. “Steve, you can't just—”

She cuts herself off, doesn't have the words. She _hates_ this about Steve, how he makes her lose her footing. She looks to Sam, but he's got his face turned away now.

No help. Fine.

She draws her next breath in through her teeth and turns back to Steve. Deep in her chest something dark and sinister raises its head, snakes out a tendril to poke at her ribcage.

“ _Nobody's worth dying for_ ,” she bites out, and her focus narrows—distantly she's glad Sam is there to keep watch; on edge like this, she's vulnerable—

Oh, but he's _not,_ is he. He’s looking at her again, and it's a _concerned_ look, _how dare he_ —Nat's mouth pulls up into a sneer—

“Well, we're just going to have to agree to disagree about that,” Steve says, like they were talking about what kind of pizza to order.

Nat blinks. How did...?

She was gearing up for a fight, hisses and grunts and clawing at eyes in the dark, and Steve just…walked right in and turned on the light.

She can never seem to keep her balance, with him.

Nat rocks back on her heels again, and Steve must see his opening, because he switches tracks.

“And about Sharon,” he starts, but in Nat's peripheral vision Sam pushes off from his tree trunk. Steve pauses and she turns—

“Just going for a walk,” Sam announces before either of them can speak. “Won't go far.”

Sam gives her a look she can't interpret, and Nat curses herself. She's all _jumbled_ , trying to switch gears but they squeal and grind and jump. She tastes salt and rust at the back of her throat.

Sam wanders off, hands in his pockets, and Nat takes two careful breaths before turning back to Steve.

“What _about_ Sharon?” she prompts, letting the words trickle out slow as she looks up into his face.

Steve meets her eyes. “Now I know he's back,” he says, deliberate, “I don't want anyone but Buck.”

He blushes a little at the end and ducks his face to try to hide it. Nat shifts her weight and licks her lips.

This will be delicate.

“Understood, Steve,” she says carefully. “It's just, maybe we should talk about—”

“Talk about what,” he says, eyes snapping to her face again.

Nat flinches and blows out a breath, then rakes a hand through her hair. She makes herself meet his eyes. _God,_ they're blue.

“There could be...complications, Steve, it could take time—”

“That's fine. I'm patient.”

Nat decides to let that one go. He doesn't seem in the mood for ribbing.

“Okay, well, look,” she tries instead, “it doesn't have to be a whole romantic thing. You can...a person can always use more friends.”

Something squeezes in her throat as she says it, but she keeps her voice steady.

Steve raises an eyebrow anyway, and Nat clears her throat.

“I mean, no offense,” she continues, _maybe a little ribbing is the right thing after all,_ “I know you're all big tough guy on the outside”—she gestures broadly at The Meatstack That Is Steve—“but you _do_ need some, ah, taking care of.”

Steve drops his gaze and for a second she can't read his face—maybe that was the wrong thing to say, _god dammit_ she's off her game—but when he looks up there's so much sincerity there, Nat almost can't stand it. Her palms itch for a weapon, the soles of her feet crave the thud of the ground in a run.

“What do you think I've got you for?” Steve asks, and that's too much, he just doesn't _get it_. Nat wants to be angry again but it won't stick, everything's falling apart, her very cells vibrating, cracking open.

“Steve, I can't—”

“Can't what?”

“I can't _stay_ —”

“What do you mean, stay? Stay where?”

“Would you let me _finish_?” Nat snaps, “Here! I can't stay here, I can't stay”—she gestures at him again—“with you, I have to—I'll need to go underground, I'm—I'll be a target—”

Steve puts up one hand to stop her. He looks confused.

“Nat,” he says, “I…know that? You told me that earlier.”

“Right, so…” what is he not _getting_ about this? “I'll be gone, you'll need— _you can have somebody else_ —”

God, why does this _hurt_? Tears prick at the inside corners of her eyes.

“Natasha, I don't understand.” He's speaking slowly, as if _she's_ the one who's confused, but she isn't, it's him—

“Hang on,” Steve says, frowning suddenly, “you don't think just because you need to lie low for a while, that this”—he gestures back and forth between the two of them—”this just stops being a thing?”

Nat tries to come up with a response to that, and can't.

“Nat,” Steve continues, “you can't possibly think that! I mean, go, if you need to, of course, but that's…that's not what it felt like, when you walked away. It felt like you were—like you were really _leaving_ me, and…”

Steve's voice breaks and he looks down again, then back to her face, and Nat's just...shorted out. _Hold, please. Rebooting_.

Steve's looking at her the same way he had at Sam's house the other day. He's even in white again, a soft tee with his brown leather jacket over it. Nat finds herself wondering what he smells like, right up close. Leather and soap and sweat, probably. She shakes her head. He gets his listening face on and suddenly she thinks the oddest things.

He deserves so much. Only the best, for someone so trusting.

“Steve, you should have—you deserve people in your life who are…good”—a deep frown appears on Steve's face, but she pushes through—“someone thoughtful, someone who would have—would have _realized_ —”

“ _Nat_.” His eyes are so blue, the words just start tumbling out.

“I should have put it together, Steve. Fifty years, and...he was with Hydra”—Steve flinches at her wording—“ _Hydra had him_ , I mean, shit, sorry, I just…what if...what if he was _there_ , Steve?”

She hadn't planned to say this, hadn't planned to ever even _hint_ at the possibility. Once it occurred to Steve that she and the Winter Soldier—she and Bucky—might have crossed paths back then, he'd never—

“I don't remember,” she can hear herself saying, “I don't _think_ I knew, I—I swear I didn't know, or...God, if I did know, I didn't _know_ I knew, Steve, I swear on my _life_ —”

Suddenly his arms are around her and her face is buried in his chest, right up next to his armpit, his tee soft on her cheek and the zipper of his jacket just brushing her temple. He smells like sweat and soap and leather, just like she thought.

“Hey, shhh, hey, there you go,” Steve is saying, and she's squeezing back tears but they're soaking into his shirt anyway and this is all _backwards_ , he's the one with the best friend and lover back from the dead, the only person in his life who'd really known him, gone forever and then back again—

“I thought he was gone,” she chokes out, the change of subject out of nowhere. Steve follows her anyway, murmuring, “I know, Nat, me too, me too.”

She hasn't had time to collect herself, not really, still going through the motions of accepting Nick's death even as she knows it was faked.

“I'm sorry,” she sniffs, and there'll be snot in Steve's t-shirt now—

“Don't be sorry.” He's still holding her in, no careful space between his arms this time. They're criss-crossed over her back—Bucky back there too, _like a hug sandwich_ , she thinks absurdly—

“Can I tell you something?” Steve asks, nosing at the top of her head.

Nat sniffs again and worms her hands up in between them so she can wipe her eyes.

“Yeah. Of course,” she says then, and steps back as Steve's arms release her.

“I, uh…um.” He takes a breath, gripping the folder in both hands.

Nat frowns up at him. _This can't be good_ —

“I'm the one who should have known,” he says, clear and heavy.

“Steve—”

“No, don't. Listen. After I pulled him off the—the table, we—it was more than a year we fought side-by-side, among—among other things, and…”

Steve trails off, gone pale. Nat reaches out to put a hand on his arm, but he pulls away, hugging the folder to his chest.

“He healed too fast, Nat, he ate as much as I did, he could _run_ —I wouldn't let myself see it—I couldn't bear it, I refused to believe my own eyes and—and when he _fell_ ”—Steve's voice turns pleading and Nat's heart judders up into her throat—“you have to believe me, even _I_ couldn't have survived, I'm sure of it, it was so far down, you can't imagine, and all the _rocks,_ there was no way—no _way_ he could have made it—”

He chokes off and turns away and she turns too, unable to keep watching—

That's when Sam steps right up in between them, throws one arm over Nat's shoulders and the other around Steve's and announces brightly:

“Well, one thing we know for sure, absolutely none of this is _my_ fault.”

Nat and Steve both make sounds one might describe as startled, choking sob-laughs.

“I wasn't even alive in the forties,” Sam practically chirps, “and I've never been to Russia. I am”—he squeezes them both in tight—“one hundred percent _off. the. hook._ ”

Sam looks pointedly into the middle distance, a satisfied smile on his face.

“Uh, how was your walk?” Nat manages a moment later.

“Fine, thanks, didn't go far. _Speaking of which,”_ Sam says, tilting his head to look solemnly at Steve, “You are the least patient person I have ever met, besides myself and maybe Riley, God rest his soul.”

Steve laughs a little and Nat elbows Sam in the ribs, as best she can given she's already squished up against his side.

Sam grins and releases them both from his grip, then nods at the folder Steve still has clutched to his chest.

“Hey, lemme see that,” he says, reaching out.

Steve hesitates. Sam rolls his eyes.

“Come on, I'm not gonna steal him from you.”

Sam reaches forward and gently pries the folder out of Steve's hands. Steve flexes his knuckles, as though he hadn't realized how tightly he'd been holding it.

Sam flips the folder open and Steve flinches, but Nat scoots in to peer over Sam's arm. Two photos are paperclipped to the inside cover,  one large and one smaller, the big one tinted blue and showing a man's frozen face, metal and glass—

Nat jerks back and rubs her hands together, fingertips suddenly gone numb.

Steve’s looking at her with a puzzled expression.

“You haven't seen these?” he asks.

Nat shrugs, and for a moment feels inexplicably sheepish.

“Seemed private,” she says, and Steve goes all soft again, damn him.

Nat can't help her smile, and she and Steve squeeze in again, one on either side of Sam.

For a minute none of them say anything, just looking at the photos. Then Steve reaches out and touches the tips of his fingers to the edge of what Nat now understands to be the viewport of a cryofreeze tank.

“You know, they put me in a tank, too,” he says with a hollow chuckle. “Mine was hot, though, and I couldn't see out the window.”

“Birds of a feather, the two of you, huh?” Sam says.

Steve hip-checks him for that, and Sam fake stumbles to the side, which pushes Nat over, too.

She catches her balance easily and Sam straightens—he was faking the stumble, the folder barely jostled—and leans back up against Steve's side. Steve's arm snakes around Sam's waist and Nat registers the minute shift in Sam's posture as he braces to take some of Steve's weight.

“Two sides of the same coin, maybe,” Steve murmurs, and touches Bucky's frozen cheek with his free hand. His tongue darts out over his lips and for an instant Nat tastes blood in her mouth, harsh and coppery.

“Hm,” Sam says, and then, “here, let me get that.”

Nat watches as Sam nudges Steve's hand out of the way, then carefully removes both photos from their clips. He flips over the blue-tinged one and re-attaches it face down, then fastens the smaller portrait at the top of the page.

Steve's shoulders drop about a foot down from his ears, though Nat's not sure he notices, his gaze fixed now on the handsome face looking just off-camera. Nat leans in again; Bucky's expression is candid and thoughtful, his eyes bright even in black-and-white and his lips slightly parted.

Steve lets go of Sam and puts his hands out for the folder. Sam gives it back, still open, and Steve holds it almost gingerly this time, one hand flat under the spine and the other resting gently next to Bucky's face.

“Handsome devil,” Sam offers then, and Steve startles a laugh.

Nat steps around to Steve's other side and noses up under his arm. He laughs again, almost a squeak as she burrows up and through until her shoulders are pinned between Steve's bicep and his chest.

“Mm,” she hums appreciatively, “he _is_ a looker.”

Steve laughs again, louder this time, his whole body shaking gently.

“Are you kidding me? Look at those cow eyes. Look at them, Nat,” he insists, twisting just enough to get her in a headlock and smushing her face into the page.

Nat squeaks and reaches her arm around to pinch Steve's side, hard as she can, and Steve jumps, relenting enough that she can settle back in comfortably, his arm over her shoulder and hers around his waist.

Across from her, Sam shakes his head and laughs. Steve gives him a baleful look.

“ _Cow eyes_ ,” he says again, like it's important they understand. “Duck lips,”—he taps Bucky's mouth twice with his finger—“cotton candy for brains.”

Steve taps twice at Bucky's temple, smile impossibly fond. Across the expanse of his chest, Nat and Sam share a look.

“Well, I think he's cute,” Sam shrugs and loops one arm around Steve's waist, settles it just above Nat's.

Now it's Steve's turn to shrug.

“Too bad, I guess. He's taken.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but he ends up smiling anyway, looking down at Bucky's picture with a gaze almost as warm as Steve's.

 _Maybe that's his trick_ , Nat thinks suddenly, and realizes she's smiling too. _Maybe he's just...contagious_.

Her whole body relaxes at the thought and she leans her full weight into Steve.

“Alright. You win, Stevie.”

Two pairs of eyes—one brown, one blue—go wide and dart up to her face. Nat laughs and breathes in deep.

_Leather and soap and sweat._

“Let's go get your boy,” she says, and if there's velvet in her voice, she didn't put it there on purpose.

Steve leans down and plants a quick kiss on the top of her head before he answers, “ _Let's_.”

 

  **END OF PART 1**

Interlude: <https://youtu.be/m326LNIRB3k>

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link description: A lyric video for the song "Pompeii" by Bastille.


	7. Natasha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains references to Steve dissociating; it does not happen in the scene.

**EXT. STREET MARKET (LAGOS) - DAY**

Nat's blood runs cold at the sound of Steve's voice over the comms, halting at first and then growing into calm urgency.

“Fire and Rescue on their way,” Sam's voice crackles in a second later.

“Steve, what happened?” Nat asks into her wrist as she jogs toward the smoke rising a few blocks away.

The smell has reached her now, burning her nostrils. She rounds the last corner and pulls up short, gasping at the sight. Multiple floors blown out of the building; civilian casualties are a given. The only question is how many.

Her stomach churns. _Shit. Shit shit shit_.

“Suicide vest,” Steve chokes out in her earpiece. “Rumlow. I—Nat, I got distracted...”

Nat steels herself and breaks into a run.

 

* * *

 

**INT. AVENGERS COMPOUND / STAIRWELL - DAY**

She finds Steve leaning on the railing at the bottom of the stairs, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose and the other holding his phone.

In the common room upstairs, the argument over the Accords rages on. Muffled voices drift down: Rhodey and Sam volleying arguments, Tony shouting at random intervals, Wanda and Vision interjecting periodically only to be drowned out again.

_If Nick were here, he'd know what to do._

There's no use wishing for that now, though.

She parks herself on a step about halfway down the stairs.

Steve glances up, and only hesitates for a moment before he sits down beside her, one step lower so he's at the right height to lean his head on her shoulder.

 _That's a good sign_ , Nat thinks; with her free hand she reaches across and rubs a few little circles in his bicep with her thumb. Steve doesn't react. His hands are hanging limp over his knees.

“Steve, where are you right now?” she asks.

“I'm fine,” comes his too-hazy reply.

“Tell me anyway?”

Steve makes a frustrated sound and sits up. “I'm here, Nat, I'm not…”—he scrubs a hand through his hair, and as he does his eyes come a little more into focus—“Stairwell, okay? Compound. Steps, railing, light coming in from the window. Happy?”

Nat smiles and nudges her shoulder into his. “Yes, thank you.”

Steve huffs. “Can we just—”

“Yeah, of course. Here,” she offers, and scoots up and around so she's sitting behind him, his waist between her thighs and his head lolled back on her collarbone.

Gently she turns his face away so she can scratch a little at the back of his neck. Her other arm wraps around his shoulders and he brings one hand up to hang off her wrist. The other still holds his phone.

His eyes close and Nat lets her thoughts drift as she pets his head, rhythmic and soothing.

No one had mentioned Bucky upstairs, though the question had hung in the air—what if the Accords meant Steve couldn't look for him?

 _What if that would be a good thing_ , Nat thinks, hope and guilt striking her gut in equal measure.

He’s been running himself ragged, the last threads of his composure starting to wear; she can see it in the lines of his face, and the way he stands too stiff and tall. Getting worse all the time.

Nat takes her hand out of Steve's hair to rub a few strokes briskly up and down his arm, as if to warm him up— _as if he needs it,_ he's a furnace—but she feels a little better, pretending.

Steve makes a small sound and tilts his head further to the side, exposing more of the back of his neck, so she goes back to smoothing his hair, tucking it behind his ear, scritching at the base of his skull.

_Smooth, tuck, scritch. Repeat._

He leans a little more of his weight on her and Nat closes her eyes.

Amidst all the chaos of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s collapse, there had been something so good and hopeful there, two years ago now, when they'd had the Winter Soldier file and Steve's eyes had been brighter and his gaze more present than she'd ever seen them before.

But one by one their leads had dried up and a shadow had fallen over them all. Steve first, and then her, and lately Sam, who'll never admit he’s running out of steam, chasing a fading hope that isn't even his own.

It shows on his face, though. In his posture.

People are easy, really, once you know what to look for.

This, now, is easy, too: Steve will never sign the Accords. And he'll never stop looking for Bucky.

Sam had tried to broach the subject once, she knows: tried to tell Steve that it was okay to stop looking, that it wouldn't mean he loved him any less. It hadn't worked, just pushed him harder, and she and Sam had put their heads together and decided they'd just have to let him wear himself down, and hope one of them was there to catch him when the bottom fell out.

Lately they tried not to leave him alone at all if they could help it, or they'd come back and find him slumped against the wall, his eyes gone vacant, and there was always…

They'd figured out the basics. They'd get him back—gently, always gently—but it was like he didn't remember right away that he'd...changed, and the shock of it...and then he'd _fight_ and it was like watching someone drown, and worst of all at the end he'd blink and stand up and he'd be all back to normal and Sam would walk it off but Nat, she'd be left feeling skittish, like sliding around on the ice without the right grips on your shoes.

Like butter dripping off a plate, like sweat-slick hands fumbling on the trigger—

That's the crux of it, really.

She's a weapon, always has been.

Always will be, too, whatever Steve would have to say about that, were she foolish enough to say so in front of him.

 _Once a weapon, always a weapon_ , and if Steve falls apart— _when_ Steve falls apart—who'll point her at a target?

_If Nick were here..._

But he isn't, so that leaves _who_ , exactly?

Tony? Loose cannon with a good heart (metaphorically speaking)—he might be the glue that holds them together but it's Steve who points the way.

And Steve's getting lost.

Abruptly Nat's eyes fly open as she realizes Steve's hand on her wrist is shaking.

“Steve?” All her senses snap into focus; she can almost feel her brain smack against the front of her skull.

She squeezes her legs around his torso. “Hey, what is it?”

Soundless he reaches back to hand her his phone.

A text message, just five words:

_She's gone. In her sleep._

Searing-hot rage ignites in the middle of Nat's chest and fans out her arms, flames licking yellow-orange right down to her fingers. She almost drops the phone.

“Steve _,_ when did you get this? Just now? Sweetheart, oh”—she wraps both arms around his chest and squeezes in as tight as she can, burying her face in his throat—“They sent you a _text?_ Steve, oh, love. Oh. I'm so sorry.”

Steve shudders and desperately Nat wishes for another set of arms; he's too _big,_ rattling apart and she can't hold him together.

He breaks out of her hold and turns to look at her, eyes wide and dry and fearful.

“He's not coming back, Nat,” he rasps. “There's no one left.”

He wraps both arms around himself and Nat takes his face in both her hands, leans forward and presses her forehead to his.

There's nothing to say.

The center's been rotting out.

The cracks are starting to show.


	8. Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks [brideofquiet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brideofquiet/pseuds/brideofquiet) for some terminology help!
> 
> Content note: Brief mentions of Alzheimer's and depression.

**INT. CATHEDRAL - DAY**

Sam arrives back in the nave of the cathedral to find it empty, except for Steve and Natasha standing together in the center aisle. Steve is leaning down, listening to something Natasha's saying in his ear. Between them she holds both his hands in hers.

Sam clears his throat as he approaches; Steve straightens and Natasha give his hands a squeeze before dropping them and offering Sam a mock salute.

“I'm off,” she says, “don't have too much fun without me.”

Steve looks from Natasha to Sam and back again. “Impossible,” he deadpans, “Sam's never any fun.”

Sam punches him in the arm for that and Steve, kind soul that he is, winces as if it actually hurt.

“Mm,” Natasha purrs, with a tilt of her head and a sparkle in her eye, “loyal, though...”

She winks at Steve, who opens and closes his mouth like an exceptionally large fish. Sam rolls his eyes. Apparently satisfied with that, Natasha turns and heads for the exit.

“Miss you already!” Sam calls out just as her silhouette passes through the heavy double doors.

She waves over her shoulder without turning around, and a moment later the doors close behind her.

Whatever this is, this rift over the Accords...it had better be temporary. They had a rhythm going, the three of them, and it feels wrong, staying here with Steve but watching Natasha go. Like a three-legged stool with one leg missing. Off-balance.

Sam turns to Steve, who's standing now with his arms wrapped around himself, looking hunched and smaller than usual in the huge, high-ceilinged space.

 _Case in point,_ Sam thinks. _Natasha's the hugger._

His own style of comfort is more verbal, but he's coming up blank just now. Normally he’s good with this kind of thing, but he hadn't known Peggy, had only been here in the first place because Steve had asked—though even if he hadn't, with the Accords happening, what else was there to do but follow Steve around?

Sam frowns. _That can't be right, that's not why—_

“You know,” Steve says, jostling Sam out of his thoughts, “I've read a few of the books they wrote about me, after I died.”

“That so?” Sam asks, crossing his arms and leaning against the edge of a pew.

“They talk about me like I was this…like I could do it all on my own,” Steve continues, looking mostly at the floor. “But I was nothing without Peggy. She was my compass. My guiding light.”

Steve's gaze drifts to Peggy's picture up near the altar. “She was good, Sam, _so good_ right down to her core, but ruthless, too, like you wouldn't believe. Like Nat that way, a bit.”

Steve's focus shifts to Sam's face and Sam meets his eyes and tries to smile. There's something about Steve's reverence that's hard to bear.

“They lit me up,” Steve says quietly. “Peggy. Buck. Without them, I'm…everything just feels muffled. Gray.”

 _Symptoms of depression in reanimated supersoldiers_ , Sam reminds himself to Google later.

“Of course, the books got plenty wrong about Buck, too...” Steve muses, the barest hint of a smile gracing his face, gone as fast as it came.

Sam sees it and latches on: “ _Dashing_ , I believe, was the most common descriptor.”

“Well,” Steve says, and there's that smile again, just for a moment, “you and I know the truth. That's the important thing.”

Something occurs to Sam all of a sudden.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, “The way they talk about you, ‘best friends’ this, ‘childhood pals’ that…”

Steve doesn't answer right away, but when he does his voice is warm and steady.

“Nah,” he says, “we _were_ best friends. That never changed, the fact that we were also...something else...it doesn't cancel out, for me.”

Hearing him say it like that...Steve has a way of making things seem so obvious.

“We were friends before we were anything else,” he continues. “We were friends _more_ than we were anything else.”

It's one of the first times Sam's heard Steve refer to Bucky in the past tense, but he'd rather cut his own tongue out than say so.

“Did Peggy know?” he asks instead, because truth be told, he's always wondered.

Steve gets a sheepish look on his face and suddenly seems very interested in the floor.

“I'm not sure,” he says eventually. “I think she must have. We never talked about it, but…”

“She _was_ a spy,” Sam offers.

“Best in the business.” Steve smiles, and just then there are footsteps at the front of the church.

“Hey, you're still here,” Sharon says, heels clicking on the floor as she makes her way over to them.

Sam extends his hand to greet her. “Sam Wilson.”

“Sharon Carter.” Her handshake is firm and professional.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” Sam says.

“Thank you. It was”—she looks to Steve—“it was some time coming. But she didn't...she wasn't in pain,” Sharon finishes with a sad smile.

They're all quiet for a moment, and then Steve says, “That's going to be me, too, you know,” and it takes Sam a second to grasp what Steve is getting at; when he does, he feels suddenly, violently ill.

“We don't know that—” he starts, but Steve interrupts him.

“My body doesn't age,” he says, flat and factual, like he was announcing two plus two is four.

Sam tries to think of how to soften this—it's not something they talk about, he isn't prepared—but when he looks to Sharon she doesn't seem surprised, just frowning a little, sad.

“Peggy was worried about that,” she says quietly, and both Sam and Steve go very still.

“She knew?” Steve asks after a moment.

“She suspected...she said no one wanted to talk about it, it was taboo to even suggest”—Sharon looks helpless, like she wasn't planning on this conversation either—“she told me once, she didn't know whether to regret it, playing God—”

“I don't regret it,” Steve says suddenly, fixing Sharon with his blue, blue eyes.

Sharon smiles another sad smile and Steve looks down, holds his arms out in front of him and turns his hands over a few times.

“Well, if I could change _some_ things…” he says, and tries for a smile of his own.

Sharon laughs, just a little, and then she says, “Peggy felt the same way,” and Steve's face—

It's like someone lit a match under his skin; he flickers for a moment and then just lights up all over, beaming, bright as sunshine.

Sharon looks as startled as Sam feels, and suddenly she's rambling: “She said she missed you, after. That you—you were perfect before, she said, you were _beautiful_ , and—Steve, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—it's not that she didn't _appreciate_ , ah—” Sharon gestures vaguely at Steve and then seems to realize what she's doing. She turns to Sam with a frantic look.

He puts his hands up, _don't look at me_ —

“Oh, Pegs,” Steve says under his breath, all soft affection, and Sharon seems bolstered, leans in and stage whispers:

“You know, she told me once, she said”—Steve leans in too and they're like kids, the two of them, giddy with a secret, and it's contagious, Sam finds himself holding his breath as Sharon feigns a British accent—“'All I ever wanted, you know, was for him to kiss _me_ for once. Just once, a real kiss, _just a taste of what that Barnes fellow was getting_ —’”

Everything goes all sideways on Steve's face and Sharon claps a hand over her mouth.

“I'm sorry,” she mumbles through her hand, looking back at Sam. “I shouldn't have said—”

Steve collects himself.

“Oh, no, it's not that,” he says. “Sam knows. Everyone knows. Or, they should, by now.”

Out of nowhere Steve gets a wild look in his eyes. “ _Steve Rogers was fucking James Buchanan Barnes,_ ” he shouts suddenly into the empty church, his voice echoing up to the rafters.

Sam just about chokes and Sharon looks aghast for a moment before she bursts out laughing, Steve not long behind.

“Pardon my language,” he says to no one in particular.

“Peggy would be so proud,” Sharon giggles, wiping her eyes.

“So she didn't like the way I kiss,” Steve says, and looks across at Sam, “maybe she's got more in common with Natasha than I thought.”

“That's not what I meant—” Sharon looks practically stricken.

“No, no, I get it,” Steve insists, looking pleased with himself. “Speaking of which, how are things on the infectious disease ward these days?”

Sharon winces and laughs at the same time. _Inside joke,_ Sam figures, and suddenly gets the feeling he should make himself scarce.

“I'll meet you back at the hotel,” he says, but Steve's engrossed in whatever Sharon's saying— _something about laundry? Doesn't matter_ —so he slips away without waiting for an answer.

The sun is out and it's the middle of the day, but all the same Sam gets the sense it's brighter inside the cathedral than out of it.


	9. Sam

**INT. HOTEL LOBBY - DAY**

“Steve,” Sam says, pulse pounding in his ears, “there's something you've got to see.”

This is bad, it's so bad. It's everything he'd feared they'd find, it's—

“Buck,” Steve breathes, and beside him Sharon's eyes go wide and Sam hates this, _hates_ knowing it's all right there on his face, _not Bucky, not Barnes, Steve, it's the Soldier_ —

He doesn't have to say it, Steve's as sharp as they come and his face falls so fast, Sam feels like he could cry—God, when was the last time he cried—watching that pure nascent hope wither and die on Steve's face, a lifecycle in fast motion, a flash and then nothing. Less than nothing.

The only thing to do is lead them upstairs to watch the news and wait—for what, exactly? Instructions?

The only person who gives instructions around here is Steve.

 

* * *

 

**INT. HOTEL ROOM - DAY**

Sharon hangs up her phone just as Sam's rings in his pocket. Leaving her and Steve in front of the TV, Sam steps aside to answer.

“You have to stop him,” comes Natasha's panicked voice, breathless but alive. Sam closes his eyes for just a second, a tiny _thank you_.

His moment of gratitude is short-lived; Natasha's still talking, rambling in that way she does when the adrenaline's worn off and she's fresh out of poise, ricocheting—“He'll be desperate, he'll do something—”

“I'm not his _babysitter_ —” Sam hisses into the phone, and immediately regrets it. His gaze flies to Steve's face: still watching the reporting on the TV. Impossible to tell if he heard.

Sam moves toward the window, lowers his voice as best he can with his heart still hammering. “If you want to try to stop him, be my guest. There's no point, but I know how you like to _tell yourself you tried—_ ”

 _Jesus_. Sam snaps his mouth shut as Natasha gives a startled cough in his ear.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean that.” Sam switches the phone to his other ear and tries to stop his hands from shaking. “This has—this has all gone to shit, it wasn't supposed to end this way—”

“Nothing's ending,” Steve announces sharply, standing right over Sam's shoulder.

Sam whirls around. The TV is off and Sharon's gone; Steve has his defiant face on, arms crossed and everything. Sam doesn't know whether to punch him in the jaw or fling himself out the window.

“Steve?” Natasha's voice comes through the phone, “Sam, let me talk to him—”

“I'm glad you're safe,” Sam says through gritted teeth, then hangs up, shoving his phone in his pocket so he won't throw it across the room.

He faces Steve head-on, planting his feet and squaring his shoulders. There's a beat where neither of them breathe.

“Natasha's alive,” Sam says flatly.

“So is Bucky,” says Steve, just as firm.

Steve's eyes flash and Sam abruptly finds he doesn't have the energy to fight. He takes a breath, sets his jaw, tries to think of something to say...and in the silence, something interesting happens.

For every second Sam doesn't speak, Steve's chin juts out another millimeter, out and out and out and finally he falters, darting his eyes to the side and licking his lips, panting a little, and suddenly it's just so tragically clear to Sam, how this is all supposed to go.

Steve _needs_ the fight.

He needs Sam's resistance, can only dig his heels in properly if Sam's pulling back, measures his righteous certainty against Sam's opposing doubt.

Sam feels the weight of it in his hands, like a dark, rough-hewn boulder: the task of keeping Steve's expectations low, slowing him down, cushioning his fall.

How did they end up here? They were supposed to be friends. This was supposed to be _good_. When he'd met Steve on that early morning run, Sam hadn't thought to himself, _gosh, this looks like a great person to spend the next two years with, stewing quietly in half-acknowledged grief, resenting and being resented in turn._

No, meeting Steve had felt like being out for a drive, laughing down the highway with music blaring and the windows down.

Now it's more like Steve looking morosely out the window while Sam grips the wheel and hovers his foot over the brake.

 _Bucky will come back_ , Steve never quite says.

 _People don't come back_ , Sam never quite answers.

People don't come back.

People. don't. come. back.

 

Riley isn't coming back.

 

Oh.

With a crack and a shudder the stone in his hands breaks open and Sam sees, inside, the weight of his own grief, festering—he never lets himself feel it, too busy coaxing others through their pain—and it's just...it's not _fair, none of this is fair_ , how many people have lost someone? Lost _their person,_ same as him, same as Steve? Why should Steve—why does Steve get to be the _exception_ , what's so goddamn special about _Steve—_

It's actually asking the question, if only in his head, that lets Sam see the answers.

_Steve before everything, climbing into the tank—couldn't even see out the window, he'd said._

_Steve downing his plane._

_Steve with his bullet holes and his stab wound and his messed up face, “fire now.”_

And it's not just that, Sam realizes, reeling: it's not just that Steve's on his third or fourth life now, can do what he wants. It's not that he's given so much; it's that he's done it all, seen what he's seen and still, _still_ like a sunflower toward the light he turns, believes. Believes in people, lifts them up, shining like a beacon even as he himself feels mired in darkness.

And as for Sam...

Sam's on his first life, first and only.

But without Riley, it's felt like only being half alive. And at least—at least they'd been half-alive together, he and Steve, and if Steve gets him back—

 _If Steve gets Bucky back_ —

Suddenly Sam looks down, rolls his shoulders and spreads his hands just a hair farther apart. In his mind's eye the weight he was holding crashes to the floor and shatters, shards of black rock skidding across the floor, embedding in the furniture, in the walls, in Sam, in his legs and his gut and his heart.

 _Tired of half-living anyway_ , Sam thinks, and beams at Steve, who's taken a step back and is looking at Sam askance, brow furrowed, deeply wary.

“Let's—” Sam tries to speak, but his voice comes out too rough. There's a shard in his throat, it hurts to breathe.

He tries again: “Let's get going, then. Wouldn't want to keep him waiting.”

It's an odd joke, Sam can't quite put his finger on why it seems so funny, the idea that all along Bucky's just been waiting around while Sam and Steve dawdled, took their time—

Steve is laughing now, a high, squeaky sound, edging into hysterical.

“Handsome guy like that,” Sam continues, starting to chuckle himself, “bet he gets impatient.”

Steve loses it then, the timbre of his laugh dropping, dropping until he's laughing for real, head thrown back, shoulders shaking, and Sam's laughing too, shards working into him, burying deeper. Tears in his eyes.

Gradually they quiet and Steve, finally, looks at Sam and sighs.

“You have no idea,” he says, and a moment later it's over, they're back: a bomb and a suspect, they'll need a lead, need a plan. Need to get to Vienna, and then, if they can, to Bucky—his body, anyway, and if they're very fast and very, very lucky, maybe his mind, as well.

 

* * *

 

**INT. COUNTER-TERRORISM TASK FORCE HQ / BOARDROOM - DAY**

Suffice to say, Barnes had very much _not_ been waiting, had fought tooth and nail to get away from them again.

It hadn't worked, though, so he's waiting now, somewhere in the building, forklifted away in his fancy personal cube jail.

He's going to be waiting for quite some time, if Sam's not mistaken. This is going to be a mess—that is, if the cube jail is even strong enough to hold him, which Sam's not entirely convinced it is.

He's even less convinced it could keep Steve out—Steve, who's staring out the interior window of their glass-walled boardroom, just about vibrating out of his skin.

Sam pulls his chair up closer to the table and leans back.

“So how was he,” he asks, “on a scale of thirties babe to murder vampire?”

Steve swallows. “Hard to say.”

“I saw the way he looked at you,” Sam offers, less teasing this time—the cube jail had been glass-walled, too.

“Could be programming,” Steve counters, voice rough.

“Hey. You let me worry about that.”

Sam says it on instinct but finds he means it anyway; he'd thought he'd set this burden down, but maybe—maybe he'd just handed it back to Steve.

Maybe that's all they're doing: playing hot potato with hope.

Sam shrugs. Volleys it back.

“Tell you what,” he tries, “how about we split the difference. I'll worry about whether he's brainwashed, and you focus on whether he still wants to kiss your sorry face.”

Steve’s about to reply when Bucky's image appears on one of the screens in the control room outside.

Steve goes stock still and Sam does his best to settle in for the long haul.

 

* * *

 

**INT. ABANDONED GARAGE - DAY**

_Let me worry about that_.

Sam had meant it in a general sense. A long-term, paperwork-intensive, _legal proceedings_ kind of sense.

Not literally, right this second _hey I know let's go hide out in a dank abandoned garage with Bucky Barnes and/or the Winter Soldier slumped over a rickety little chair with his metal death-arm in a vise that may or may not hold._

That's Steve for you, though: always giving a hundred and ten percent.

(In fairness, this isn't _entirely_ Steve's fault. And Sam had been right to doubt the structural integrity of the cube jail, so there's some comfort in that.)

_At least he's unconscious—_

Oh. Shit, nevermind.

He's awake.

 


	10. Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mental health trigger warning for this chapter; spoiler notes at the end.
> 
> Here's one last link to [Sincerely, Your Pal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3194165/chapters/6943961) by [lettered](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettered/pseuds/lettered), for anyone who missed it, or who just wants to have Steve and Bucky's TFA-era backstory top of mind going into the next few chapters. 💜

**INT. ABANDONED GARAGE - DAY**

Something is wrong.

Bucky had thought so, back at the apartment, but now he's sure: something is wrong with Steve.

He'd been interrogating Bucky—

He'd been _asking Bucky questions_ , each time taking just a hair too long to react to the answers...like being on a long-distance phone call, that split-second lag.

He'd stood stiff as a scarecrow, too, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed while _bird guy_ here—Sam, that is, he'd said his name when Bucky thanked him—while _Sam_ had freed Bucky's arm from the vise.

There'd been a tense moment, then, and after that more questions: about Siberia, the doctor, the other Soldiers.

Bucky shudders. Sam and Steve are talking quietly at the edge of the room; something about Tony, the Accords, _I know a guy_...

Bucky's shoulder twinges again, so he scoots his chair a little further to the side and makes a wide circle with his arm, easing out some of the tension.

The movement catches Steve's eye; he turns toward Bucky and takes a careful breath. “Sam says he knows someone—”

“I heard,” Bucky says sharply, and winces at his own tone. His hearing _is_ excellent, thankyouverymuch, but he's jumpy as hell right now, and it shows.

It's been a long day, is all...first his picture in the paper, and then the apartment—he'd _liked_ that apartment, maybe that was his mistake. Then he'd been restrained, twice in one day, to say nothing of the trigger words…

Bucky shakes his head to clear it. He feels sick. He hurt Steve earlier, he's sure. He can't remember exactly, and there's no point forcing it; the details will come to him in a dream, tonight maybe, or next week, or next year.

Steve and Sam are holding some kind of silent conversation now, just vague gestures and pointed looks. Bucky aches to get closer even as he grips the chair to stop himself. Steve's face looks okay, but the way he's standing...could be internal bleeding, and of course he wouldn't let it show, wouldn't say—Bucky’d have to pin him to the wall and ruck his shirt up like he used to have to do, check for bruises—

Unless...maybe Steve's different, now? Maybe he'd say so, if he were really hurting. Bucky wouldn't know, hadn't kept tabs—he'd had reasons for that, though, _good ones_...maybe Sam could tell him. He and Steve seem close, in tune with each other—

_Wait._

“So,” Steve says, just as Bucky's heart lurches up into his throat, “do you want to come with us? Or…?”

_No. This can't be right._

_No no no no no no—_

He'd known this was a risk, the longer he stayed away, the farther he ran—but he _couldn’t_ come back, not until—

“Buck?”

_Someone else curls around Steve in the night._

Does he listen to his breathing? Does he know to—but no, there’s no rasp anymore. Does he watch the shadows of his eyelashes on his cheek? Does he love him, does Steve love him back—

Bucky tries to keep his gaze on the floor but finds he can't—it hurts, and when things hurt he looks for Steve's face, that's just the physics of it, unchanging, unchanged—and of course Steve’s eyes go all soft, damn him; rat bastard can't leave well enough alone, Bucky doesn't need his _pity—_

“Buck, it's not—”

“It's fine,” Bucky says cooly—the words feel like razor blades in his throat but he won't, _won't_ let it show—“I was dead, it's not like I expected you to _wait._ ”

Sam looks surprised, _did they think he wouldn't notice?_ It's so obvious now, the gentle way he looks at Steve, the way Steve turns to him—

 _The important thing is for Steve to be happy,_ Bucky thinks desperately, _that's the main thing…_

A sing-song voice in Bucky's head starts up its cruel, familiar torment. _Waited too long, you waited too long, Barnes_. C _ould have been there, but you weren't, coward, fool_ —

“Buck, I swear—”

“Shut up!”

Steve recoils and Bucky thinks, _not you, honey, never you,_ and the dagger in his heart of that...he snarls to keep the tears from coming. Steve mirrors him, glaring, gesturing to Sam and saying in a voice that sounds cruel even to Bucky's jealous ears: “Bucky, there's _nothing_ —it's—he's— _nobody_ could—”

“ _Jesus,_ ” Sam breathes, and takes a step back.

Steve startles. “Wait, I didn't mean—that's not—”

“No, no, I heard you,” Sam says, shifting fast from stunned to icy smooth. “ _Nothing. N_ _obody._ Glad we finally got that out in the open.”

“Sam, please,” Steve tries, but Sam's still backing up, hands up and out, _don't even try._

Steve turns to Bucky. “Sweetheart,” he says, and starts to move—

“No! I don't want—”

— _to hurt you,_ Bucky can't bring himself to say.

Steve freezes in place, then takes one slow step backward, his gaze going a little unfocused as he sinks down into a crouch with his back against the wall. “Okay,” he mumbles, “yeah, okay.” His eyes are downcast, glazing over—

“Shit,” Bucky bites out.

“Oh for Chrissakes,” Sam says at the same time.

Bucky lurches forward and then abruptly changes course. He whirls around to stand behind his chair, gripping the top edge with both hands, as if this little plastic thing could do anything _,_ could _protect_ anyone—

_Sam's got it. Sam's got him._

Bucky tries to even out his breathing as Sam crouches down next to Steve and pats him awkwardly on the arm: “Steve, hey, come on back, buddy...”

_Has this been happening a lot? Do they know what to do?_

Sam's being gentle, at least, that's part of it, but—

“Get his neck,” Bucky says roughly, hoping...but no—“Like he _likes_ , moron.”

“The hell I know what he likes!” Sam snaps, and that's it, Bucky's going to have to—

“Natasha usually does this part,” Sam mutters, and who the hell is Natasha? Bucky hadn't even thought... _oh God, is she soft?_ _Is she soft for Steve, bet she is...and warm, too, bet she doesn't have—_

Suddenly this all seems terribly familiar.

 _Never learn, do you, Barnes?_ coos a mocking voice in his head. _Foolish, stupid_ —

 _That's exactly it_ , Bucky thinks deliberately. _I never do learn._

_Never could get one damn thing to stick._

In an instant the bonfire of his fear folds in on itself and goes out. His shoulders drop.

Steve's handwriting swims in front of him, snippets etched so deep on his soul no shock could dislodge them:

**_Don’t be a dingbat_ **

**_Furthermore_** ~~ ** _Furthermore_**~~ ~~**_Furthermore_**~~

**_I got really cold_ **

Carefully Bucky lets go of his chair and takes two steps toward Steve. Sam looks up, considers for a moment, then moves back to make room.

Steve's blinking and shaking his head, still dazed but on his way back. Bucky kneels in front of him. Left arm limp at his side, he reaches up with his right to stroke the back of Steve's neck, slow and a little scratchy, just like he likes.

“Hey, doll, there you go, hey,” he murmurs as Steve finds his eyes.

“He'll freak out in a minute—”

“I know.” Bucky answers Sam without looking away from Steve's face.

_He was gone and they didn't know what to do. Steve needed him and he wasn't around._

“I'm here now, doll, I've got you,” Bucky says, and waits.

It only takes a second. Steve comes to, reaches for Bucky; startles, looks down; looks back up with panic in his eyes and his breath catching in little gasps.

“Bucky, they made me—I can't—Buck, I can't breathe—”

“I know, baby, look at me, sweetheart”—Bucky takes Steve's hand, lifting it up and pressing their palms together—“gonna get you out, doll. Gonna get you out. You come right on up here, baby, are you here? Press your forehead right here, good, there you go, get your hand up. There. There. You feel it? Just hang on, baby, I'll get you out, are you ready? Ready?”

In the space between seconds Bucky settles into their shared vision, an invention from the war: Steve's small fragile body, trapped behind glass, drowning; Bucky on the other side, ready, poised to break it.

Steve takes a breath and holds it, and that's Bucky's cue: in one lightning-quick motion he pulls back and flicks Steve's palm as hard as he can.

He can almost hear the sounds: shattering glass, rushing water. He catches Steve's wrist before it falls.

_How many times had they gone through this routine? Night after night at first, in the cold and the dark and the mud. And then gradually Steve had settled; days would go by, and then weeks..._

Steve's collapsed against him now, coughing violently. When he finally groans and looks up, Bucky's heart skips a beat: Steve's eyes are huge and bright, just like they're supposed to be, blue and keen and _present_ —there he is, oh God, _there_ he is, his honey, his Steve—

“Buck,” Steve breathes, and wraps Bucky in a hug so hard and tight it knocks the wind right out of him, but Bucky doesn't care, just grabs on for dear life with his good arm and gently, gently, rests his other hand on Steve's back, tracing his shoulder blade until he finds that familiar sharp point: a touchstone still, after all these years.

All Bucky wants to do is lay his head on Steve's chest and listen to his heartbeat, but Steve's grip hasn't loosened, so Bucky settles for pressing his face into Steve's neck, nosing around until he finds his pulse, hot and hammering.

_The first time he'd heard it, Steve's new steady heart, they'd been just like this, just like now, only in the woods with Steve collapsed against a tree and Bucky plastered to his front, dirt and sweat in their eyes, clutching each other; surrounded by men as exhausted and stunned as they were, they'd forgotten everything they'd meant to do...shocked to be alive at all, much less together, they'd spent the whole night just drifting, breathing—_

Bucky breathes now, pulls in deep the smell of sweat and skin, and when he curls his hand into Steve's shirt, Steve squeezes back, harder still, how is that possible? Any second now Bucky's ribcage will crack—oh well, oh well, it'll heal, _break me open, Steve, Stevie, sweetheart, crack me in two_ —

Over Bucky's shoulder, Sam coughs politely. “I hate to, uh…we just—we really need to…”

They pull apart and help each other stand. Abruptly Bucky's anxious again, doesn't know what to do with his hands—he thinks, he hopes, but maybe he misread—

His gaze drops to the floor just as Steve grabs his wrist, the left one, and Bucky's breath catches at the ease of it—but then again, his Stevie's fearless, always has been—

“I'll just, uh...I'll give you a minute. Gotta check the exits real quick,” Sam says, his voice a little broken-sounding.

When he's gone, Steve brings up his other hand and gently lifts Bucky's chin. His eyes are piercing as he twists his hand to press his thumb down on Bucky's lower lip.

Bucky feels a sort of...re-alignment. The calculations he's got running in the background—exits, sightlines, threats—for years now they've revolved around a single point: himself.

But that's not how it's supposed to be.

He's supposed to be watching out for Steve, too. Keeping track of Steve. Protecting Steve, orbiting Steve, inhabiting Steve.

Like a circle widening, a second engine spooling up...like a dislocated joint popping back into place...the relief is immediate, and Bucky feels high on it, slippery—

“Cold where we're going, Buck,” Steve says then, and his voice is like honey and sandpaper; Bucky feels delirious, he's an open vessel, rubbed raw and still, drinking him in, overflowing—

“I'm not bringing a coat,” Steve rasps, and presses down a little harder. It's all Bucky can do to keep his knees from buckling; a small sound works its way out of his throat, a needful little whine. He wants to fall to the ground, unhinge his jaw and beg _—please baby, please—_

Just like that Steve drops his hand and turns, makes his way to the door. Bucky falls in step behind him without even meaning to, an impulse far older than the Soldier driving him forward:

_Go, keep up, stay close to Steve._

His head throbs and his vision swims, but instinct pulls; dazed and grateful, Bucky follows.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note, text in bold is quoted directly from Sincerely, Your Pal by lettered (link in the notes up top!) The reference to Steve "bringing a coat" is drawn from lettered's work as well. 
> 
> Trigger warning spoiler notes: Steve dissociates briefly in this chapter, similar to the scene in the van in chapter 3. He has something like a panic attack immediately afterward, but Bucky's there and they go through a routine they came up with in the war: Steve feels like he's drowning in a tank so Bucky mimes breaking the glass to get him out.


	11. Bucky

**EXT. HIGHWAY OVERPASS - DAY**

The mood in the car is tense, Steve tapping his hands on the wheel while Sam stares out the passenger-side window, though what he's looking at, Bucky couldn't say; there's nothing to see but concrete.

The contact is running late—

 _Steve's friend_ , Bucky corrects himself. Steve's friend is running late.

From his spot in the cramped back seat, Bucky reaches up and cuffs Steve on the arm.

“Who is it we're meeting, exactly?”

“Sharon,” Steve answers, and stops drumming to fold his hands in his lap. He meets Bucky's eyes in the rearview mirror and gives a sad smile.

“Carter,” he adds. “Peggy's niece.”

Bucky wonders if he should be more surprised. It does make an odd kind of sense...one thing you learn, living longer than a person rightly should: things can get real circular, sometimes.

Suddenly it occurs to him to wonder—“Peggy, is she…?”

“You just missed her, Buck, I'm sorry.” Steve smiles his sad smile again, and speaking of circular: Bucky’d had enough of that particular look by, oh, nineteen thirty-six or so.

“She would have loved to see you,” Steve says, and Bucky can't help scoffing a little and rolling his eyes.

“I'm serious!” Steve insists. “She liked you.”

“Liked you better,” Bucky counters, leaning in and lowering his voice. “Wanted to rip your clothes off with her teeth, if I'm not mistaken.”

Steve sputters gorgeously, while in the passenger seat Sam coughs to muffle his laugh.

“Don't listen to him, Pegs,” Steve whispers, and brings two fingers to his lips; he kisses them gently before reaching up to touch the roof of the car.

Before Bucky can get a word in about that chaste little peck— _a Carter girl deserves better, surely_ —Steve goes alert.

A split-second later, Bucky hears it too: a car pulling up. Must be Sharon.

In the mirror, Steve frowns, thoughtful.

“What is it?” Bucky asks.

Steve hesitates before he answers.

“Never mind. It's nothing,” he says eventually, and climbs out of the car. Steve might miss Sam's wince, but Bucky doesn't.

“You know,” Bucky says on impulse, “Steve, uh, I really don't think he meant—”

“I know,” Sam says icily.

Bucky huffs. _Should've left it alone._

Up ahead, Sharon pops the trunk of her car and Bucky spots a glint of metal. It occurs to him he could have asked Steve to ask her—but no. Not worth the risk, for a bunch of papers.

Bucky shifts, frustrated and uncomfortable. This car is the size of a matchbox.

“Can you move your seat up?” he asks.

“No,” comes the unhelpful answer.

A moment later Sam sighs heavily and shifts in his seat.

“How's your pain?”

“My what?”

“Your pain,” Sam repeats. “The arm. Must not be comfortable.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, a bit surprised by the sudden turn. “Yeah. It uh, hurts.”

_Not the arm, exactly, but everything else: shoulder, hips, spine. Headaches, the works. Facts of life, now._

“Jetpack strapped to your ass must not be all that pleasant either,” Bucky offers.

“True,” Sam says, before their olive branch exchange is interrupted by the sight of Steve _kissing Sharon on the mouth, what the hell_ —

Oh.

God, this is such a Steve thing to do.

Bucky can't blame him, though; so many loops they didn't get to close, missing years, goodbyes they never got to say.

Sharon looks happy, anyway. Good for her.

Steve looks back at the car and Bucky gives him his toothiest grin. A moment later Sharon's fishing around in the back seat of her car—is that—it _is_ —

Sharon says a few words in Steve's ear and he nods, then walks back over and taps on Bucky's window. Bucky rolls it down, _hand-cranked, Steve sure can pick 'em._

“Hey,” Steve says, a little gruffly. “You playing nice?”

“Of course,” Bucky answers, smooth.

“You better be.” Steve nods toward the front seat. “He's my friend.”

Sam shifts but doesn't look back.

Steve clears his throat. “Anyway...Sharon wants to meet you. If you, uh, want.”

“She...oh. Um, sure, okay. I'll, uh. I'll be right there.”

Steve heads back to Sharon while Bucky reaches down to crank up the window. He reaches with his right arm at first, then switches sides. Left hand, _careful now_...he gets the pressure just right, first try. The window rolls up smoothly.

“Hey, uh,” Bucky says before he opens the door, “just so you know, Steve doesn't call just anyone—”

“I know,” Sam interrupts, quieter this time, no bite in it.

Bucky clambers out of the car. When he gets up front, Steve slides one arm around his waist, easy as anything. Bucky's whole body runs hot for a second and he leans back into the pressure.

“Hey,” he manages.

“Hey, yourself,” Sharon says. “Thanks for coming up. Aunt Peg always said such lovely things about you.”

Steve gives Bucky a little squeeze at that, _told you so._

Then Sharon hands Bucky his backpack. She must have risked her neck to get it, even more so than the shield and flight suit...Bucky doesn't understand why, can't think what to say. He clutches the bag with both hands.

Steve gives him another squeeze. “What have you got in there?” he asks, ever nosy.

“Nothing—I mean. Just notes, mostly. But, um. Important ones.”

Bucky looks at Sharon and hopes his gratitude shows on his face. He can't seem to find the words.

He'd been sure they were gone; worse, sure they'd been read. Another one of those risks he'd known he was taking, but he could never bring himself to—

Well, doesn't matter.

They're safe now, his letters.

Almost two years’ worth, at this point: Letters to his Ma and his sisters, sure, but mostly to his friends. Noam and Cagney, Al and Sowder. Burnette. Ace.

Wisnowsky, Flint, Saroyan. Willis and Yo.

Dum Dum and Morita, of course, and Gabe and Falsworth and Dernier.

Peggy, too.

There are letters to people he'd never even met: _Dear DE, Dear Honey, Dear Gloria, Thank you for taking care of—_

There are letters to Steve.

Page after page, journal-fuls of them.

Every time he'd remembered a name, or a face, or a sketch Steve had done...every time he'd tried something new, or took a risk; fled a safehouse; found a new one. On good days and bad days and nights:

_Dear Steve,_

_Dear Stevie,_

_Sweetheart,_

_Honey,_

_Love._

_Dear Susan,_ he'd written once, and then laughed until he threw up.

Bucky thinks he might throw up right now. He nudges Steve out of the way and slings the bag onto his back. There's a chest clip that goes across the front, one side hanging from each shoulder strap.

Carefully Bucky clicks the two halves together; right away his stomach settles. It's just a little plastic clip, but it's one of those things...a habit that grew into a comfort.

“Well,” Sharon says, “I really do need to go.”

 _Thank you,_ Bucky intends to say, but his throat's gone dry; he can't find his voice.

He offers a handshake instead and Sharon takes it, clasping his right hand in both of hers.

Bucky hesitates for a moment, then brings his left hand up and lays it on top, _careful now…_

He gets the pressure just right, first try.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hat tip to [gracelesso](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracelesso), [deisderium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deisderium) and [@dottieapplesez](https://twitter.com/dottieapplesez?s=09) for...well, you know why. 💜
> 
> Please note: Other than the Howling Commandos, names of Bucky's friends are taken from Sincerely, Your Pal by lettered (link in the Ch10 notes!) "Dear Susan" also refers to a plot point in lettered's fic, where Bucky writes romantic letters addressed to Steve's imaginary sister Susan, to avoid the appearance of homosexual content.


	12. Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mental health trigger warning, spoiler notes at the end.
> 
> Thanks [frostbitebakery](http://frostbitebakery.tumblr.com/) and [SpecialHell](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/SpecialHell) for researching plausible Hydra base locations and Quinjet travel speeds. :)

**INT. QUINJET - DAY - TRAVELING**

No one died, Bucky's sure. He'd been careful, got the rundown from Steve beforehand: who's invulnerable and who's just a dumbass in a suit.

He goes over the details again, just to be safe...no. He hasn't killed today. Not yet.

But if the other Soldiers are awake…well.

The only thing worse than blood on his hands is blood on Steve's.

 _It wasn't you,_ Steve had said a moment ago, _you didn't have a choice—_ as if he hadn't been a killer long before Hydra got him— _perfect shot, never missed—_

Bucky plants his feet on the floor of the jet and breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth.

Up ahead, Steve finishes fiddling with the quinjet controls.

 _“Autopilot engaged,”_ chirps the console.  _“Time to Novokuznetsk: two hours forty-three minutes.”_

There's a long silence.

When Steve speaks, his voice is laden with guilt; Bucky's on edge before he says a word.

“Buck, if it comes to it...don't worry about me. You just get yourself safe.”

God damn it. God _damn it._

He'd been hoping they were wrong.

 _You're gonna like Natasha_ , Sam had said earlier, _total pain in the ass, practically a mini-Steve._

Then one of the new guys had chimed in, _Doesn't have a death wish, though_ , and everyone had laughed like it was some kind of running joke.

Bucky had kept his face very, very neutral while bile rose in his throat.

“Steve,” he says now, steadying his voice as best he can, “you can't do this. We've been _over_ this. I can't watch your back if I can't _trust you_ to—”

“Trust me?” Steve interrupts, quiet and pained.

Bucky's mouth snaps shut.

Steve's voice is barely more than a whisper: “Buck, you're the one who ran.”

Bucky's out of his chair in seconds, flinging off his seatbelt, hauling himself up in front of Steve and slinging one leg over to straddle his lap. They're nose to nose and Steve's gone wide-eyed and agape; his hands hover over Bucky's hips before settling on his waist instead, palms just barely touching Bucky's sides.

“Bu—” Steve tries to speak but Bucky clamps a hand over his mouth. Steve's breath is hot on his palm and he leans in, so close his lips brush his own knuckles. His left arm hangs at his side.

“I had to run,” he whispers, _no point holding onto it, get it out, may as well_ , “you made me run, Steve.”

Somehow Steve's eyes go even wider. “Nnmm,” he tries to say, and twists his head away. Bucky lets him.

“No, I—Buck—”

Bucky brings his hand to Steve's mouth again, not covering it this time, just fingers ghosting over lips.

“Stop, just stop. Please, I need you to listen.”

Steve nods, trembling; his lips part ever so slightly and suddenly Bucky's acutely aware of how he's positioned in Steve's lap...if his hips were just an inch closer...but now's not the time. He breathes in deep, steadies himself.

“On the carrier. The catwalk, remember? _Don't make me fight you,_ you said, and did I? Did I, Steve?”

Bucky waits for it to sink in, watches the crease in Steve's forehead deepen as he searches his memory for the moment Bucky moved, doesn't find it…

“I _didn't_. Didn't move a muscle, I just stood there—”

Bucky's chest tightens and his heart rate picks up, _does Steve have any idea, has he got the slightest goddamn clue,_ every nerve in Bucky's body screaming but he'd held so still, he'd been so _good_ and Steve had charged him anyway—

Bucky's vision whites out; he squeezes his eyes shut and hot tears spill down his cheeks.

Immediately Steve lets go of Bucky's waist and reaches for his face, but Bucky grabs both his wrists, collects them in his left hand. He twists and pulls them down into his lap; Steve gasps but doesn't struggle.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky says, tracing Steve's hairline with his free hand, forehead to temple. “You'd already decided. You decided you couldn't have this, and that's the same as deciding I can't have it either.”

Steve doesn't make a sound; Bucky's right and they both know it.

Curling his free hand around the back of Steve's neck, Bucky leans in, brushes his lips over Steve's cheekbone, his eyelashes. He presses his damp cheek to Steve's dry one, whispers in his ear: “ _I see right through you, all the way down to the bottom._ ”

Steve's breath catches at the familiar words—his own, thrown back at him now—and Bucky wonders, had anybody known, while he was gone? Had they understood, how Steve needed to be dragged kicking and screaming to his own release?

Bucky keeps talking, his voice like the tide coming in, rhythmic.

“Got it in your head when we were kids, didn't you, sweetheart? That you were a goner. That your life was gonna be one big tragic sacrifice. Always picking fights you couldn't win, climbing into your crucible, crashing your plane.”

Steve makes a sound of protest but Bucky grips his wrists harder, presses his lips to his ear, pouring the words right in.

“I've read the books, Stevie...greatest tactical mind the military could ask for, and that was _before_ they jacked you up…but you couldn't find a way to land that goddamn plane—”

Steve's voice, dry and husky: “Buck, you were _gone—”_

Bucky shakes his head, his nose bumping at Steve's temple. “That's not it, though, is it, sweetheart? I don't want to live without you either, baby, you know that. But that doesn't mean I want to die. I don't want a _good death,_ whatever that is _._ I want to live, Steve. I want to be happy. With you.”

Steve whimpers as Bucky grips the back of his neck, finds the leverage he needs to slot his hips that last inch forward, Steve's hands and one of his own still trapped between their bellies.

Bucky keeps his voice low, persistent.

“What do you think I've been doing this whole time, huh? Sitting around? Playing games? Taunting you? Did you think I was taunting you, baby?”

Steve's breaths are coming faster now, hitching, _almost got him—_

“I have spent every minute of every day since you _charged me on that helicarrier_ trying to get better for you. Trying to make myself _safe_ for you, since you're too goddamn stubborn to be safe for yourself.”

They're coming now, Steve's tears, _that's the trick, get them coming quietly,_ God damn, his baby hasn't changed a bit. Bucky catches one on his tongue, adds just a little lick, just to make sure he got it all; Steve moans and tries to free his hands, but Bucky only holds them tighter.

“I can't do the work for both of us, Steve. You gotta help me out. Gotta start pulling your weight. I need you to pull your weight, baby.

Steve's gasping, “ _Can't, I can't—”_

“Bullshit. You _can_. Every person has a will to live, Steve, it's built right into your bones. Buried down there, they—baby, they buried it when they…oh, Stevie. Oh, sweetheart.”

Suddenly Bucky gets it.

 _Just a kind of background noise,_  Steve used to say, of his odd unsettled feelings. But that was before...he'd stopped talking about it, after...or, no. Maybe he hadn't. _The serum amplified everything,_ Steve had said, and now it was Bucky who hadn't listened, hadn't heard.

“I can't,” Steve says again, quieter this time.

Bucky lets go of Steve's wrists; instantly Steve's hands move to Bucky's waist and Bucky can't help rocking forward—Steve groans and slides his hands further down, fingers digging in, bruising _—_

Bucky gets his own hands in Steve's hair, presses their foreheads together— _can't get close enough—focus—_

 _“You can, baby, you can._ It's down there, I can feel it, I can taste it…I just want to reach into your chest and pump your heart myself, like I used to want to do, I wanted to…Steve I wanted to climb inside your body, just get my hands up in there when you couldn't breathe and hold your lungs open...but I can't, sweetheart, it doesn't work like that.”

Bucky reaches down and finds Steve's hands, pulls them up and presses the palms to Steve's chest, one on top of the other, right over his heart.

“They made you so strong, baby. Big strong hands, look at you. I need you to use them for me. That's what they're for, sweetheart, did they forget to tell you? I need you to dig, baby. Dig out my Stevie, sweetheart. I need him, need him so bad.”

Steve's panting hard and Bucky's right there, talking into his mouth, lips moving like kisses as he forms the words.

“Big strong hands, dig for me, honey. Come on. Come on.”

“Buck—”

Steve gives one last shuddering gasp and there it is: like a dam breaking, he keens and the sound rips Bucky's heart in two. Bucky wraps his arms around Steve's neck, using every ounce of his strength to crush their bodies together.

Steve’s clutching him back, just as hard, harder. Heaving sobs shake his body, over and over, and all the while Bucky talks low in his ear: “There you go. There you go, baby. You're okay, you're safe. I've got you, I'm here.”

There's nothing to see but miles of open sky in every direction, nothing to hear but the quiet hum of the jet, Steve's cries and Bucky's murmurs.

They stay like that for a long time, tangled together, soaking up each others’ tears.

Eventually, Steve's wracking sobs quiet to hitched breaths and hiccups. Bucky's whispering still, repetitive: “I'm here, honey, I've got you. Thank you, baby, I'm here”

Steve shudders one last time and Bucky gentles him down the rest of the way. “Baby, thank you. Shhhh. Thank you.”

They're quiet for another moment, then finally Steve groans and looks up at Bucky with bloodshot eyes.

“God,” he croaks, “I didn't think I could do that anymore.”

“Well,” Bucky says, just as hoarse, “I always did know how to give you what you need.”

Bucky tries for a wink. He must look a sight, all damp hair and swollen eyes. Steve's are already clearing, _damn, he heals fast_ —

_Moves fast, too, holy shit—_

All at once Steve's kneading Bucky's ass, rolling his hips and running his mouth, “God yes, baby, you do—only you, nobody but you, sweetheart, God—”

Bucky bites back a moan and sinks his teeth into Steve's shoulder, or as close as he can get with this _godforsaken uniform in the way—_

Steve reaches up and runs his hands all the way down Bucky's back, rough, fingers catching in the fabric. Sparks burst behind Bucky's eyes, _it's too much, it's too soon, losing control—_

Bucky gasps and wrenches himself out of Steve's grip, climbs off his lap and stumbles to the side, stopping just short of taking out a control panel.

Steve's glued to his chair, hands up, already apologizing, “Buck, I'm so sorry, that was too much, I should've asked—”

“No, it's—it's okay, I do want—I just need—just give me a second—”

Bucky runs a hand through his hair and tries to get his breathing back under control.

“I'm sorry,” Steve says again, reaching for him. “May I? C'mere, I won't—sorry—”

Bucky accepts Steve's outstretched hand and settles back into his lap, sitting sideways this time, easy out if he needs it. He lets Steve nose up under his ear, still murmuring _sorry, sorry_.

“Hush, it's alright, I—it was just a little fast—”

“I know sweetheart, I'm sorry. God, I just missed you, Buck, I missed you so much—”

Bucky didn't think he had any tears left, but _hey, what do you know._

“Oh, sweetheart, let me get that, may I?”

Bucky nods and Steve thumbs over his cheekbones, gentle as can be. Bucky leans into the touch, angling his face toward Steve's—

The question goes unspoken this time. Bucky nods again and Steve drops a feather-light kiss under one eye, then his cheekbone, the corner of his jaw, the corner of his mouth.

“May I?” Steve whispers, hovering.

Bucky makes a sound like a rusted hinge and Steve's breath catches but he doesn't move, just cups Bucky's face in his hands and asks again, so quiet: “May I, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” Bucky breathes, and oh, Steve's lips, Bucky'd die for these lips, forget all that talk of living, he'd—plush, they're just _plush,_ nobody should have lips like this, it's not—

 _Oh god, his tongue_. Steve's tongue, hot and pink and gentle at first and then hungrier, little wet sounds and Steve's hands on his face, roaming, thumbing over his cheeks, circling back to tangle in his hair—

_Shit, the console's beeping, God, they're out of time—_

Steve must hear it too; he moans into Bucky's mouth and digs his nails into his scalp. Bucky makes a punched-out sound and tips his head back, exposing his throat for Steve to lick a hot, wide stripe above his collar.

Steve sighs and the cool air on his wet throat makes Bucky shiver. Steve drops his hands, first to Bucky's shoulders and then to his arms, slow strokes up and down.

Finally Steve stills, then gives a funny little laugh and bites at Bucky's jaw, teeth scraping over stubble until he finds a spot he likes and just...stays there.

“What are you...doing?” Bucky asks after a minute, Steve still mouthing at his jaw like a large, teething puppy.

“Dnnmo,” Steve tries to say, and that tickles; Bucky laughs and Steve laughs too, as best he can with Bucky's jaw caught in his teeth.

“Okay, okay,” Bucky says, pushing on Steve's chest to lever himself up out of his lap.

Steve gives an exaggerated whine and Bucky swats him on the arm. “Would you just—look, we've got...we have to…”

He trails off as it all comes back into focus, where they are, what they'll need to do _—that is, if they've even made it in time—_

Abruptly Bucky leans down, grips the straps of Steve's harness and kisses him hard, no tongue this time, just pressure—Steve's pushing right back, each of them desperate, as though if they pressed hard enough they could leave imprints on each other.

The console beeps again and Bucky pulls away, drags himself back to his seat and buckles in. He steadies his hands and takes careful breaths, _in, out._

Up front he can see Steve doing the same, re-focusing, locking everything away but _mission_ and _survive._

All they have to do is survive this, and then—

God, and then—

Bucky doesn't know what happens next, but he's going to find out, he's waited so long...

 _Just a little longer,_ Bucky tells himself, soothing.

_Just a little longer, now._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning spoiler notes: 
> 
> This chapter deals fairly heavily with Steve's depression and self-destructive behavior. It's suggested that Steve could have landed the plane in WWII but chose to go into the ice. Bucky says he's been trying to make himself safe for Steve, and Steve needs to start pulling his weight. Steve has a big cathartic cry, and after that there's kissing.
> 
> To avoid the angsty buildup and skip straight to crying/makeouts, scroll about halfway down and look for the line, “Big strong hands, dig for me, honey. Come on. Come on.”
> 
> Please note also, the quote “I see right through you all the way down to the bottom” is from Sincerely, Your Pal by lettered (link in the Ch10 notes!)


	13. Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for sexual content including an under-negotiated power exchange / looks like dub-con but isn't. Spoiler tags at the end. 💜

**INT. CRYO LAB (WAKANDA) - DAY**

Bucky sits sideways on the exam table, dangling his legs over the edge while the lab tech preps his IV. He feels off-balance, still—too heavy on the right side—but his body's adjusting fast, ab muscles compensating to keep him vertical.

The IV stings going in but Bucky's not paying attention, watching the door instead. Steve should be here any minute; _just want to tidy up a bit,_ he'd said, as if tidying alone could clear the smell of sex from the room—only one night but they'd made the most of it, silk sheets and the heat turned up as high as it would go.

Bucky's toes curl just thinking about it, how he'd bent Steve over the bed, towel thrown down and a bottle of slick—just one hand to work with, gentling him open—God, he'd gone so easy—

_Been thinkin’ about me, Stevie, huh? Taking care of yourself when I couldn't be there? I can tell, honey, just look at you. Opening up so sweet for me. Baby. Shh, patience now, doll, let me just—here, one more, is that better? Oh. Oh. Oh, you like that, don't you, sweetheart. You don't know what you do to me, little noises like that. Honey you're so good for me. So good for me, Steve. Stevie. Baby. Doing okay? Does that feel good? Can you take another—oh, oh oh. Ohhhh. That's it, that's the spot, huh? God, you're so—honey you're so hot inside I—baby—taking it so well, sweetheart, I just—_

_I can't wait any longer, Steve. Steve. Oh God, Steve, I want you, gotta have you, want you so bad I need you, Stevie I need you are you ready for me, please honey I—shh, don't cry, sweetheart, I'm coming right back, see? I'm right here, I'm—baby—oh—ohhhhh—oh, oh. Steve. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god, Steve. Baby. Oh. Baby. Oh you feel so good, honey you feel so good. I can't stand it, I can't stand it how good you feel, bury me like this, bury me buried in you, Stevie I—_

_Oh honey, I know. I know how you need it, doll, just wanna feel you first, just wanna feel you all over me slow, oh, oh oh oh. Those sounds you make, do you hear yourself, sweetheart? God, you're hungry for it, never could deny you, ah, never could—like this, huh? Just like this, you like me holding you down, don't you—baby you—uh, uh uh—baby you need it harder, I know, always need it harder. I've got you. Steve. I've got you. Uh, uh. Uh. Uh. Oh God. Oh God—honey let me hear you, let me—oh—ohhh oh oh—_

_God yes, oh, touch yourself for me, baby, just like that I—Ah. Ah, ah, I can feel how much you—sweetheart, don't stop, keep going, again, again baby, that's right—oh honey, oh Steve oh God I know that sound. Baby I know that sound, you're close, oh you're so close, wait for me honey, wait for me, Steve—wait—Stevie—baby—uh uh uh honey—oh God, Steve, I love you, oh how I love you Steve I—oh, baby, oh, uh uh—oh God oh God oh God I'm gonna—now honey now, now now now I love you uh uh uhhhhhhhh—_

_There now, there now, doll, shh, shh. I'm right here, let me just—ah—God, miss you already, sweetheart, shh, I'm coming right back. Gonna get you cleaned up, love. Hang on. Hang on. Left a bruise here, baby, you ok? Yeah, of course you are, honey, I know. I know. There now, how's that, all clean—God I love you dripping like that, baby oh—baby, shh. I've got you. I've got you, honey. Shh, you can sleep now, darling, I'm right here. Not going anywhere, sweetheart. Steve, honey, sleep now, I'm here._

Bucky had drifted, too, and slept—really slept, hard and deep, miracle among miracles—later they'd woken in the dark, curled in, tangled together—all hungry hands and roaming mouths they'd moved against each other's bodies, hadn't stopped until dawn.

When Steve walks into the lab, Bucky tries to put it all on his face, everything he's feeling: love and gratitude and hope. Steve has to ask, of course, _are you sure about this,_ so Bucky explains, again, as if they hadn't gone over it a hundred times this morning, working through every option but always ending up back here: with Bucky going under.

“Hey, c'mere,” Bucky says then, and Steve steps closer, nestling between Bucky's knees, leaning in for a kiss.

Bucky laughs and grants him a peck on the lips, no need to scandalize anyone...Steve's eyes sparkle and he bites his lip, so Bucky leans in and whispers in his ear, “Unzip for me, doll?” and oh, it's too precious, the way Steve turns pink at the drop of a hat.

Bucky laughs and shakes his head. “Your jacket, punk.”

Steve rolls his eyes, mutters something but does as he's told. When he's got his jacket open, Bucky presses his palm flat to Steve's chest. “Breathe for me, Stevie,” he says, and Steve blushes again—not a nickname they use in public, normally, but hell, it's a special occasion—then lays one hand over Bucky's and breathes in deep, once, twice. No rasp, no rattle, just good clean air in his huge healthy lungs.

“Never do get tired of this,” Bucky murmurs, and Steve smiles and steps back, gives his hand one last squeeze; it's time.

Bucky goes to hop down off the table but finds he can't move, heart racing—thank God for Steve, steady hand, helping him down. Bucky would never have made it this far without him—talking all morning, then over to the lab for scans and tests, Bucky breathing deep and even, Steve holding his hand...then an hour to go while the machine prepped so they’d headed back to the guest room to rest—Bucky shaking, couldn't help it, warm air all around but cold in his bones—

 _Hot shower,_ Steve had suggested, _together,_ so they'd stripped and stepped into the bathroom, door clicking shut on the tiny cramped space and suddenly Bucky'd known what he needed, sinking to his knees with his back to the door.

 _Would Steve remember?_ The really bad days, back then, when Bucky'd lined up too many shots and missed exactly none, how he'd needed Steve, what he'd needed Steve to—

 _Would it be different, now_? With everything that had happened, everything they'd done to him—but no, Steve remembered, thank God, and it was the same—

_Steve's startled expression at first, “Sweetheart?” and Bucky's breathy, broken “Please…” Steve's eyes going dark, then, his bulk crowding Bucky against the door, blocking out the light—_

_Steve hot and gorgeous at Bucky's lips and Bucky melting like candle wax, pliant, liquefied—Steve's voice, precious, every word making Bucky's ears burn—“Hey there, Buck. Hey, sweetheart. Pretty mouth, open up for me, would you?”_

_Bucky fighting it, pressing his lips together, turning away—Steve standing there, looking down at Bucky, blue eyes burning with want, reaching down to run his hand through Bucky's hair, stroking the side of his face, thumb on his lip, nudging at him, sweet salt taste— “Come on now, let me in, sweetheart, there you go. So brave for me, baby, little more, almost—ah—”_

_Bucky's head tipped back and his jaw slack, Steve settling in and starting to move, bumping the back of Bucky's throat—“Sweetheart. Ah. Kept me safe, Buck you kept me safe, you did so well, baby, just the right thing—”_

_Bucky dragging his blunt nails down the meat of Steve's thigh, hard as he could and Steve's hips stuttering, pace picking up—“Ah, Buck, oh God—missed you—Jesus, your mouth—Buck—so good I'm not gonna—ah, ah, Buck, Buck—”_

_Bucky looking up to see Steve's eyes fluttering closed, one hand leaning on the door and the other in Bucky's hair, muttering “Buck, Buck, Buck” and doing just that, bucking his hips—trying not to, though, holding back—_

_Bucky humming in the back of his throat, nails on Steve's thigh again and Steve's voice just a string of curses from then on, brutal pace, Bucky choking—can't breathe, nothing there but Steve, can't—then finally finally that familiar blissed-out whine and hot hot hot wet swallow swallow straight down Bucky's throat._

_Steve coming down with little gasps and groans, still pressed up against the door, Bucky giving little licks and suckles, breathing through his nose, softer and softer still—Steve easing away, gentle pop—Bucky who hadn't realized he was crying, feeling it now, hot tears running over his chin and down his neck, pooling in the hollow of his throat—_

_Steve dropping to his knees, kissing Bucky's cheeks and his eyes and his tender swollen lips, “Baby, sweetheart, oh.” Steve trailing a hand down Bucky's chest, lower, lower; Bucky rocking up once into his touch and then shaking his head, no, not yet, feels good, want to save this—_

And save it he had, hot bitter taste in his throat, trace of salt still on his tongue as Bucky steps into the cryo chamber. He flinches at the straps and the lab tech stops, waits— _it's okay, it's okay, Steve is here, looking very proper with his hands in his pockets and his jacket zipped up, you'd never know what's under there—_ Bucky nods and the tech straps him in.

He doesn't know what they'll do, doesn't know what they'll take or what will be left but Steve had said he was safe here and he _trusts_ Steve but still, but still...just in case, he fills his mind with the image of it—

Steve nudging him open, filling his view; Steve panting under his hand, begging for more; Steve's needful sounds, little cries of pleasure he never could tamp down, even before—even in the war when they were so cold and frightened, reeking of death, barely out of their clothes, scared and secret—even then Steve couldn't help it, his high perfect whine breaking free every time, eyes squeezed shut pink mouth gasping open _—just leave this, only this, take anything but this, everything but this—_

The chamber door hisses shut and the heat curling in Bucky's belly is the last thing to go as the anaesthetic kicks in, his vision going white at the edges—but it's different than before, a soft white this time, like sunlight, warm—

 

**END OF PART 2**

Interlude: <https://youtu.be/c-tW0CkvdDI>

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Linked video description: A large empty room, painted white, surrounded by sunlight and trees. A male dancer with dark hair performs a solo set to Hozier's “Take Me to Church”.
> 
> Spoiler tags: anal sex, praise kink, forced blowjob/face-fucking. Prior negotiation and established consent is implied. 
> 
> (In more detail: Bucky gets anxious about going into cryo. He wants Steve to fuck his face to calm him down, but/and also needs Steve to force it a little. So Bucky asks for it, then acts like he's changed his mind by closing his mouth and turning away. It's understood from context that this is part of the routine, and Steve is supposed to coax him into it, which he does. Bucky does not resist anymore after the initial turning away, rather encourages Steve and enjoys himself. It's all intended to be 100% consensual - hopefully that's clear in the text, but if not, hopefully this note helps!)


	14. Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE thanks to [@deisderium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deisderium/pseuds/Deisderium) and [@ChocolateOctopus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocolateOctopus/pseuds/ChocolateOctopus) for chatting with me about this chapter! I owe you big time!! 💜💖
> 
> Since it doesn't appear in the film, [here's a pic of Edinburgh Castle](https://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Edinburgh_Castle#/media/File:Edinburgh_Castle_from_the_south_east.JPG), situated half a mile southwest of the train station where the battle with Thanos's Children takes place.

**EXT. EDINBURGH CASTLE - NIGHT**

From his perch high on a battlement, Sam looks down across the city centre. Having the wings back on feels so good, so _right_ , his whole body thrumming with adrenaline from the long swoop up the castle walls.

Almost two years now the team's been lying low—wings too conspicuous to use except in emergencies—but just like that day in sunlit D.C., it all comes flooding back. Like riding a bike, only a million times better.

The redwings are out, too, scanning the city for Wanda. They're following one of Sam's new surveillance formations; in the downtime between rogue covert ops he'd discovered a knack for coding and an interest in ethology, scouring university textbooks for research on pack hunting behavior and cobbling together a few upgrades to the birds’ cooperative A.I.

Not that they've been idle on the crime-fighting front. Sam doesn't know where Natasha gets her intel half the time, but one way or another an objective turns up and they run like a well-oiled machine: Steve on tactics, Natasha on infiltration and Sam on surveillance, Wanda shadowing one or the other of them, if she's around.

Too risky to use her powers much but there's plenty to learn anyway, strategies and team dynamics and postmortem debrief protocols. She's a model protégé: quick learner, always asking the right questions. They take turns mentoring her but it's clear she takes after Steve the most: analytical and decisive under pressure, thoughtful and sensitive the rest of the time.

Just as bad a liar as Steve is, too... _just heading out for a bit_ , she'll say, as if they don't all know she's meeting Vision.

Steve's hopeless on that front, of course. _She's just a kid,_ he'll chide them, _she's in love, cut her some slack._ He'd give her the moon if he could, Sam's pretty sure.

Natasha’s better with boundaries; thinks they don't notice how naturally she takes to it, negotiating check-in times with a grace that belies how nervous she'll get later on, when curfew's come and gone.

At least Wanda has an excuse for sneaking out like a teenager—which is to say, at nineteen she _literally is one_ —but Steve's ninety-nine and no better, taking off out of the blue with apologies about _schedule changes_ and _last-minute appointments._

Sometimes it's true—there were consults and surgeries, early on—but other times the blush spreads down his neck as he mutters, _something came up, gotta go,_ and Sam and Natasha gamely pretend to believe he's on anything but a booty call, holding back their grins until the jet disappears from view.

At least Steve's top secret boyfriend is a hair more age-appropriate...although technically Vision is, what, three? Just looks and talks like a skeezy old philosophy professor?

 _Whatever._ What Wanda sees in him, Sam hasn't a clue, prefers not to think about it too much. Instead he scans the data feed on his goggles: nothing yet. The redwings are executing their formation flawlessly, and Sam feels a surge of pride; Rhodey has _got_ to get him some of these—obsessed with the big-ass guns on his suit but it's _maneuverability_ you want, Sam's always telling him—

Or he used to, before.

They haven't actually spoken since the fall, but Sam's pretty sure he'll be headed back to the compound tonight.

For all that the past year's been manageable—good, even, in its own way—the year before that had been rough.

It's not that he’s ever regretted his choice...even at the start, hanging out in the raft prison— _what the shit,_ by the way, _what else are they hiding,_ Sam would maybe not like to know—Steve had turned up looking both prouder and wearier than usual and Sam had thought, _he needs me._

It had seemed exactly that simple, at the time—but later that night they'd been on the jet and Steve had sighed and said, _I'm just glad no one got hurt,_ and Sam had realized he didn't know.

He'd meant to be matter of fact about it, clinical: _there was an accident, friendly fire_. But it had come out all wrong—

_Watched him fall, nothing I could do—I tried, Steve, wasn't fast enough. It was like—it was the same—I wasn't fast enough—_

A long moment of horrified silence and then Steve had looked right in Sam's eyes and said, _it's nobody's fault._

Steve's voice hadn't wavered, not that time nor any of the times after, and Sam feels awash in gratitude, now, same as he does every time he remembers: how Steve had just listened and nodded while Sam told the story again and again— _heard the shot—meant for me—dropped like a rock—couldn't catch him—_

If Steve had his own feelings about the fight—the calls he'd made, rushing off in the jet not knowing what had just happened behind them—he'd never once brought them to Sam, just listened and nodded and listened and nodded until one day Sam was telling a different story, flying over desert not grass and the body that hit the ground didn't wake up.

It had snowballed from there; Steve mentioning the Howlies one day, their later conversations ranging wide over the things they'd seen and done in their respective wars.

Natasha, on the other hand...that had been a different story.

For a hot second they hadn't even been sure she was coming. Sir Cats-a-Lot had offered to retract his accusation, but in the end she'd chosen to let it stand, gone on the run with them.

Thank God for that, too—Sam doesn't know what he would have done without her, those first months while Bucky was in cryo.

The weeks leading up to the defrost had been the worst, Steve quiet almost all the time, stalking around with his teeth clenched and his shoulders up around his ears, nothing to do but wait. Sam had wanted to be there for him but found he just didn't have the bandwidth, walking around on eggshells instead, his well run dry.

So it had all been on Natasha to drape herself over Steve's lap, pet his hair, whisper in his ear. Kept him going, day after day; only when Steve left for a run would Sam and Natasha talk in low voices about their own hope and terror.

When the day had finally come, Steve had climbed into the jet white as a sheet, while back at the safehouse Sam and Natasha barely breathed all evening, picking at their food, staring at the walls.

Lucky thing Wanda'd been away—maybe mysterious older boyfriends are good for something after all—wouldn't have wanted her to see them like this.

When Steve’s text came in the next morning, just five words— _they did it, he's here—_ like a bubble bursting, he'd known Natasha bounced back from her poise sometimes but he'd never seen her _shake_ like that; when the shock wore off they hadn't stopped smiling for days.

Things had loosened up, after that, except in one way: Natasha never joined them in their talks about the wars.

With Steve gone in Wakanda for longer and longer stretches, Sam had started to feel guilty—the things Natasha must have seen—must have done—

He hadn't looked at the files, preferring to give her the choice, but he’d been bracing himself for the horrors, determined to be there for her.

She never brought it up, though, so eventually he'd tried to coax something out of her, subtly at first and then less so until one day she'd cocked an eyebrow and said, _not in the market for a therapist, Sam, thanks anyway._  When he balked, she'd softened a little and added, _I'll take a hug, though, if you're offering._

So he'd never learned the details of her life before S.H.I.E.L.D., but she did start to talk more, slowly at first...but in the end she'd snowballed, too.

Keeping watch on his library runs, she'd overhear the students chatting, come back to Sam with opinions about pop culture news he didn't remotely understand.

Got picky about her food, instructing Sam and Steve when it was their turn to cook, insisting they make things just the way she liked.

And she'd always be the one to insist on extending their mission debriefs. The things they'd see, sometimes, or learn...Hydra gets off on human experimentation, they all know that, but still, it's a shock every time, and Natasha's always the one to mention it, after, keep them talking until they've said everything there is to say. Gets the images out of their heads that way, nagging anxiety and guilt dissipating in the air between them.

So Sam shouldn't have been surprised when it was Natasha who brought it up, finally: the one thing they never talked about.

Bucky'd been out of cryo six months by then, Steve spending half his time over there and half with them and out of the blue she'd swallowed a mouthful of supper and asked, _so does Bucky age,_ and Steve had choked on his baked beans and Sam had frozen with his fork halfway to his mouth like something out of a sitcom but Natasha just waited, Sam's not even sure she blinked, until Steve collected himself enough to say, _kind of, yeah. But slowly._

 _Faster than you_.

_That's what Shuri says._

_Can she do something about it?_

_About Bucky? God no, I'd never want—I'd never wish it on anyone—_

_No, Steve, about you._

An impossibly long silence later Steve had gotten up and left, his plate still half-full—that's the sight that stuck in Sam's mind, Steve who asked for thirds of everything and licked his plate clean after, walking away with food on the table—they hadn't spoken of it again until a month later.

Another day burned into Sam's memory, that one: Steve stumbling out of the jet in the morning looking exhausted and pale; they'd fussed over him but he'd waved them off, _I'm fine, Bucky's fine, just tired, need to lie down_ ; it was so obviously more than that, but he'd recovered quickly, and then that night Sam had turned around to see Steve sporting a five o'clock shadow.

 _Since when can you grow a beard,_ Sam had blurted out, not quite recovered from his double-take, and Steve had lifted his hand to his face and then they'd just stared at each other blankly for ages, right up until Natasha poked her head around the corner. Her hair still dripping from the shower, she'd caught on right away, eyes wide but voice steady when she asked, _how long have you got_ , and Steve answered, _about as long as Buck._

When they pulled apart later, all three of them pretended Natasha's hair was the reason their shirts were all wet.

Steve had opened up even more after that, and Sam could hardly believe his own rage at some of the things he learned: how little Steve had known, going in for his procedure; how cursory his training had been, after _—had to learn how to throw the shield like that, it's a weapon, there were accidents—_

Never read about _that_ in the history books.

And so they'd gone on, _push, pull, push, pull,_ taking each others’ weight. Practically live inside each others’ heads, now: Nat's voice in Steve's, _you shouldn't have had to do that._ Sam’s voice in Nat's, _it's okay if you want something else._

And Steve's voice in Sam's head, so certain, never wavering: _It was nobody's fault._

As if on cue, Steve radios in: “Anything?”

“Negative,” Sam replies, and then: “Wait—got a signal—”

His feed is flooded with alerts from the redwings, _energy signature detected_ —

It's Wanda.

 

It's time.

 

Sam grins and breathes in deep. The crisp night air cool in his lungs, he unfolds his wings and dives.


	15. Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for sexual content, spoiler tags at the end. No power play this time around, but there are themes of trust and vulnerability in a broadly sexual context. See the end notes for details. 💜

**EXT. BUCKY'S FARM - DAY**

Standing next to the hay cart, looking down at the arm in its vibranium case, Bucky feels disjointed, like he's buzzing out of his skin a little.

He's used the arm before, of course, back at the lab—tests and calibrations and so on, Steve a warm solid presence at his side—but here at the farm, amid the grass and hay and bleating goats, it looks awfully out of place.

T'Challa offers to leave a guard behind to keep watch and escort him back, but Bucky declines. Tries to shoo the kids off, too, with little luck—until finally their king beckons them away.

Bucky's thankful; he wants to be alone for this.

Well...he'd prefer it if Steve were here. But if not Steve, then no one.

With his visitors gone, Bucky reaches out to touch the arm; his hand goes to the edge of the case instead as a wave of nausea rolls over him. He hasn't thrown up once out here, not outside the medical facilities, and he's certainly not going to start now.

If Steve were here, maybe he'd do a quick sketch. Sitting in the case like that, framed and cushioned, it looks like something precious—an heirloom or a piece of art.

Bucky considers getting out a journal, but there really isn't time. Instead he turns and perches on the cart with the case open at his back, and takes stock of what he sees: tree line; cattle pen; hut. Living things. Sunlight. Little shrub six from the left where they'd buried Bucky's letters—the ones they hadn’t burned, or torn to shreds and scattered in the woods for birds’ nests.

 _Long strips are best,_ Steve had said, _for the weavers._

Bucky smiles to himself at the memory, and the wash of fondness gives him courage. If Steve were here he might not be sketching at all, too busy getting down on his hands and knees in the dirt so the goats can climb all over him, trying not to laugh but failing. When Steve cracks up his whole body shakes and the poor goats konk right off. Never learn, though: they clamber right back up the next time.

Steve loves those goddamn goats—he's not the one shoveling their shit every damn day, maybe that's why—loves the kids, too, lets them climb all over him in a way Bucky never does. Wandering back from a dip in the lake he'll find Steve doing squats in the clearing with his arms out from his sides, half a dozen kids hanging off him like garlands on a Christmas tree, all of them squealing and Steve's deep, throaty chuckle and the love in his eyes when he meets Bucky's, oh.

The way Steve looks at him sometimes, Bucky has to check over his shoulder in case there's something behind him—a forest god walking out of the woods, maybe, or a spaceship landing—but there never is, it's just Steve, looking at him like that, like he’s some kind of miracle.

And maybe he is, maybe they both are: miracles wrought by fate and luck and science, careful cocktails of drugs and therapies smoothing the roughest edges of their twisted minds and battered bodies.

Well, Bucky's battered body, at any rate. Though he's in better shape now—Shuri and her surgical team having worked their own miracles on his shoulder and spine—it's Steve who's really thriving. Looking to the doorway of the hut, Bucky can almost see it: Steve stepping out in just his boxers, sleep-heavy, yawning, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand, the other scratching the new trail of hair running down his belly.

God, Bucky loves that hair, all of it, the _beard—_ it's not the Steve he worshipped in his youth or coveted in the war, no, this is something else, another body, soft and animal. When Steve is away Bucky dreams of burying his nose in that fuzz, snuffing and licking at it while Steve laughs and laughs until Bucky's mouth wanders south and Steve's laughs turn into hitching breaths, a moan and his hand in Bucky's hair. God, he's good. His Stevie's so good.

If Steve were here he'd say the words, if Bucky asked him to. If Bucky needed it, he'd prove the threat is really gone, metal arm or no.

In Steve's mouth they sound like poetry, no bite in them, adoring.

Nowadays they do, anyway. The first time, Bucky'd asked him to be sharp. _Don't hold back,_ he'd said. _Mean it. Don't be afraid._

It not that Bucky hadn't trusted Shuri, her work while he was under or her determination to test the outcome herself, Steve just around the corner and a mess of guards right outside the door…

But it wasn't the same. Wouldn't have worked even if the procedure had failed, Bucky's pretty sure.

The thing is...there's an intimacy to the handler relationship. A sort of single-minded focus, obsession, that you need. Shuri doesn't have it. She's a whole person. She'd wanted to do it, wanted to take responsibility, and Bucky'd let her...but you need to be broken, to own a person like that, to bring about a reality so deeply, abominably wrong.

And Steve's always been broken for Bucky.

That's how it had all come about: Steve coming to after Bucky'd railed him to within an inch of his life, that lax, broken-open look on his face—Bucky'd been jealous, suddenly, and of course Steve saw and of course he sat up and his eyes roamed Bucky's face until he figured it out.

He hadn't even asked, _what is it_ or _what's the matter_ , just took Bucky's hand in both of his and said, _you're so good to me, Buck_ and licked his palm, sucked two fingers into his mouth and licked over them, sloppy, pulled them out and dragged them down his chin to settle spit-slick at his throat, his pulse under Bucky's fingertips. _Want to make you feel good, too. Sweetheart. If you'll let me._

 _I do feel good,_ Bucky had said, looking pointedly at the mess dripping all over the bed.

 _Mmmm_ , Steve had hummed, then smiled half a smile and leaned back, eyes unfocusing again like he'd only just come up for air.

Later, in the dark, it was easier—curled in to sleep, warm press of Steve's body at his back, just casting words into the darkness: _It does feel good—you make me feel so good, Steve, I don't want you to think—_

Steve had huffed and nipped at Bucky's ear at that, because of course he knew, and after a moment Bucky continued, _I just have to be careful, is all. Keep one eye open, you know? Just in case._

Steve’s voice, a muffled, sleepy mumble: _In case what?_

Bucky hadn't answered, just pressed his weight back into Steve in the silence until they both fell asleep _._

Steve was like a dog with a bone, though, and he'd sidled up to Bucky the next morning and set his chin on his shoulder, matter-of-fact, like always: _How can I help?_

 _Pen needs raking, over there_ —

_Happy to, but that's not what I meant._

_Oh._

They'd gone on like that for the rest of the week, Bucky never quite saying anything and Steve just...being Steve. He'd catch Bucky looking pensive and lean in, no context, just a gentle kiss and a gentler reminder:

_It's only if you want, sweetheart._

_Anything you do is OK, remember? Goes both ways._

_You just tell me what you need and I'll be there, Buck. I've got you._

_I'll think about it,_ Bucky had croaked, eventually, and Steve had said, _okay,_ and kissed him again, soft as anything.

On Steve's next visit Bucky had spun around out of the blue—fully aware of his ridiculous timing, sack of cow feed in his hands and cow shit at his feet but that's how it is now, rivers of grief running right alongside all this bubbling, relentless life— _how's your Russian?_

He'd waited for Steve to balk but of course he didn't, didn't even miss a beat: _It's good, Buck. Been practicing._

Bucky had dropped his feed sack at that and gone for a long walk while Steve took over the feeding and watering.

 _Feeding. Watering. Caring. Anticipating._ Steve’s good at it on the farm and good at it with Bucky and in that moment Bucky had hated it and loved it so much, how he never has anywhere to hide, anymore. Nothing to hide from, maybe that's why.

Coming back from his walk he'd just found Steve's eyes and said, _okay._

The actual logistics had taken some thought, but they'd pulled it off, out on the hilltop in the middle of the night, not a soul for miles in any direction.

Sitting cross-legged a few feet apart, Steve's hand out, palm down, and Bucky's underneath, palm up, just touching Steve's. All Bucky had to do was drop his hand and they'd stop. That’s it. Easy. First hint of something stirring in his head and they'd be out, had contingency plans they desperately hoped they wouldn't need.

Bucky had said: _don't hold back_ , and Steve hadn't, his voice sharp and brutal, a sort of honed, aggressive desperation mixed with a righteous feeling of entitlement, like being owed something that's taking too long to arrive.

One by one he'd dug them out, plumbing right to Bucky's depths like only he can. If there'd been anything there, Steve would've found it. Steve had always found him out, seen into every crack and crevice of his frozen, twice-thawed soul.

When Steve was done Bucky's hand was still hovering there, just touching, so Steve had waited, perfectly still, watching Bucky's face, until Bucky had tapped twice on Steve's palm which meant, _all okay,_ and then he was shivering and Steve was scooping him up and carrying him down the hill, careful, like Bucky was made of glass which is exactly what he’d felt like, hollowed-out and fragile.

Bucky had slept, dreamless and empty, woken to the sun slanting in the doorway and Steve on the floor with his head next to Bucky's knees, awake as soon as Bucky stirred and protesting at Bucky's raised eyebrow, _didn't want to crowd you,_ and Bucky meant to say _thank you_ but instead he said _again_ and Steve nodded and took his hand, shuffled up next to his ear and whispered them like a love song, echoing around the cavernous silence of Bucky's carved-out pumpkin mind.

Steve's not here, now, but then again he may as well be, so much they're entwined with each other.

Bucky hops down from the cart and faces the case head on, lays his hand on the widest part of the arm. Feet planted, sun on his back, he tries to feel Steve's hands around his waist, Steve's warm breath at his ear, Steve's steady low voice, murmuring words that belong to them now, nobody else.

“Желание,” Bucky whispers. (“Longing.”)

_Waking up, how many more days until Steve will appear at the crest of the hill? Always walks down in his steady, inexorable way, eyes only on Bucky from the second he comes into view until he picks him right up off the ground, nose in his ear, “Hey, Buck.”_

“Ржавый.” (“Rusted.”)

_Lying alone in bed with his hand down his shorts, trying to find his pleasure, identify a desire that isn't desperation, follow it to a release that isn't fear._

“Семнадцать.” (“Seventeen.”)

_Cross-legged on the floor of the hut tracing his hand over Steve's back, “Remember when you hurt your shoulder?” Only this time he can follow his hand with his tongue, press kisses everywhere he feels like._

“Рассвет.” (“Daybreak.”)

_Home after an early morning swim, Steve's sleepy beckoning, hands chasing droplets down Bucky's chest, something special in the dawn and the quiet. Later Bucky doesn't know where the time has gone, panting into Steve's neck and rutting against Steve's hand, God_ _, that's good, honey, oh._

“Печь.” (“Furnace.”)

_Steve's so impossibly warm on the inside, burning up, Bucky rocking into him, losing himself in it, the rhythm of Steve's panting breaths and his eyes drift shut, rock, rock, heat, oh. It's different, slow, and when Bucky opens his eyes there are tears in Steve's to kiss away._

“Девять.” (“Nine.”)

 _Steve doing something sloppy with his mouth, hot wet noises and when Bucky's grip tightens in his hair he pulls off most of the way, looking up at Bucky through his lashes with a little pant and whine, ah, God, what a mess, Stevie_ —

“Добросердечный.” (“Benign.”)

 _Stretched out on his stomach in the grass, sore muscles but Steve's hands warm and gentle, “Can I kiss you?” “Sure,” Bucky twisting around but that's not what Steve meant, hands on Bucky's hips, eyes dark, “Buck, can I kiss you,” oh oh oh, okay, oh. If Bucky liked Steve's tongue in his mouth this was_ — _ah, God, don't stop, Stevie, please_ — _getting loud about it, breath hot tongue hotter, please baby, more_ —

“Возвращение на родину.” (“Homecoming.”)

_Steve on his back with one leg hooked around Bucky's neck, drenched in sweat and his mouth a perfect O, gasps in time with Bucky's movements, four fingers, five, and then Steve's voice dropping a register, every breath a groan with Bucky buried up to his wrist, home._

“Один.” (“One.”)

_It had rained, smell of wet leaves and damp hay, nothing glass or metal, just earth and grass and life, warm out even with the sun going down and Steve is a part of him, now, too._

“Грузовой вагон.” (“Freight car.”)

 _Clear night up above, too many stars, Steve kissing and licking and biting all up and down Bucky's body while his fingers do some obscene dance inside_ — _oh God, right there, shit, right there Stevie don't stop don't stop oh oh oh ah fuck baby don't stop honey God honey oh how can there possibly be so many stars_ —

Can't see them during the day but Bucky knows they're there, just like Steve is here even though he's not. In one smooth movement he lifts the arm out of the case and slots it into place, there's a buzz like brain freeze and then it's over—he flexes his fingers, all ten. Breathes. Rolls both his shoulders. Breathes again.

Bucky's turn to walk, now, up the hill not down but the result is the same: Bucky with Steve and Steve with Bucky, around and inside and soaked through one another, breath in each other's lungs and stains that'll never wash out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler tags: anal sex, masturbation, handjobs, blowjobs, rimming, fisting, fingering. These elements show up as short, soft-focus glimpses into Bucky's memories of Steve's visits to the farm.
> 
> There is an overall theme of Bucky needing to re-learn how to let go and get out of his head during sex. Part of their process for this involves Steve reciting Bucky's trigger words to prove that nothing will happen. This does not occur during sex or lead directly to sex. At the end of the chapter Bucky recites the words himself, and each one is associated with a memory of Steve, involving the above tags.
> 
> P.S. The lines “Anything you do is OK” and “Remember when you hurt your shoulder” are pulled from Sincerely, Your Pal by lettered - link in the Ch10 notes. 💖


	16. Natasha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been such a pleasure to write. I hope it’s been enjoyable to read! Thank you to everyone who has given their encouragement and support, here and on [twitter](https://twitter.com/panacea_knits?s=09). Thanks also to [@softestbuck](https://twitter.com/softestbuck?s=09) for the gorgeous hand-lettered cover image that is now up at chapter 1!
> 
> 💖💜 hugs to all 💜💖

**INT. QUINJET - DAY (TRAVELING)**

A shiver runs up from Nat's heels to the crown of her head as the jet passes through the camouflage barrier into Wakandan airspace, the landscape shifting suddenly to reveal a sparkling lake with a gleaming city at its far shore.

At the controls, Sam blows out a breath; they weren't about to crash, after all.

“You get used to it,” Steve says, standing over Sam's shoulder with his lips crooked up in a smile.

Nat doesn't need to see Sam’s face to know he's rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, Romeo,” he says. “Is your boy gonna be down here or what?”

“Hope so. Unless I forgot to untie him from the bed...” Steve feigns a pensive look as Sam groans and tries to elbow him in the ribs without swerving the jet.

“Hang on,” a confused Bruce Banner pipes up from one of the passenger seats, “who is this guy, and what have you done with Cap?”

_Poor Bruce_ , Nat thinks, _missed a lot._ There was a time she would've had some kind of feeling about seeing him again, but so much has changed. She hardly ever feels as rattled anymore as she did back then: quietly falling apart, casting around for anyone who might be able to put her back together. Nowadays, her mind feels settled and her body hums, all her gears and pulleys sliding smoothly.

“It's the beard,” she announces, gesturing at Steve, “gives him sass powers.”

“Beard-burn-on-your-ass powers, more like,” Sam mutters without missing a beat, and the ensuing cacophony of groans and teasing chatter only quiets down when the jet skims the surface of the lake, Steve turning serious as he points out Shuri's lab and directs Sam to the landing zone out front.

Nat feels the change in the air as the jet touches down, everyone's focus narrowing and her own senses sharpening outward. Teasing aside, they're here for a reason: hoping the same brilliant mind that exiled Bucky's demons and Steve’s immortal godhood can save Vision from destruction, too.

 

* * *

 

**EXT. LANDING ZONE (WAKANDA) - DAY**

She should have expected it, probably, but it still comes as a surprise just how good Bucky looks, warm and content as Steve pulls him into a hug.

There's sun everywhere, glittering off the buildings, radiating up from the concrete, glancing off the armor and weapons of the Kingsguard escorting Wanda and Vision into the lab.

“How you been, Buck?” Steve asks, managing to make it sound like he wasn't just here last week.

“Oh, not bad...for the end of the world,” Bucky answers, and Nat makes a mental note: even out of his Hydra-issue fetish gear, the winter soldier's still a drama queen.

“How's the arm?” Steve asks then, reaching out to rest his hand at the join. “No pain?”

Bucky just rolls his shoulder under Steve's hand and shakes his head. Steve's gazing at him all gooey-eyed and dopey-looking, God, they're unbearable—

_“Seriously,”_ Bruce whispers from over Nat's shoulder, “this is not the Steve Rogers I remember—”

“It's Rogers-Barnes now,” Steve says, soft, his eyes never leaving Bucky's face.

Somehow Bucky grins wider than he already was, looking up into Steve's face like he thinks Steve personally hung the moon.

Nat feels herself smiling, too—Steve's contagious as always, sure, but it also just feels so nice to have used her, ahem, _skills_ for something as impeccably benign as coordinating name-change paperwork across multiple continents, all without alerting the powers that be to their whereabouts. It had been a thrill and a half, to be honest, and that's not even counting the look on Steve's face when she'd handed over the completed file. _History books won't have a choice, now,_ he'd murmured, damp eyes and something soft and bittersweet in his smile.

“Uh, hey, congrats!” Bruce stammers, addressing Steve but gesturing at Bucky. “He seems really, um, nice—”

“Are you _kidding me?”_ Sam practically squawks and then it's chaos again, just like on the jet: teasing and goading and Steve's belly laugh rumbling along under it all. Nat lets her eyes drift shut, soaking the sound into her skin for as long as she can.

Eventually, T'Challa clears his throat and Steve's demeanor changes, a graceful slide into calm professionalism—nothing like how he used to get, wrenching violently between old Steve and new. Only one Steve, now, and he's everything at once: giddy and collected, sensitive and cocksure, loving and loved.

“Right,” Steve says, “let's move. Nat and Bruce, with me. Rhodey, perimeter. Bucky, Sam, stay with the jet. Your Highness?”

T'Challa nods and begins leading the way into to the building. For a second it looks like Steve might lean in and kiss Bucky goodbye, but instead he gives his hand a gentle squeeze and turns away.

Nat's already planning how to chastise him later, when suddenly Steve's turning back, two quick steps and then he's got Bucky gathered up in his arms, just absolutely kissing the _shit_ out of him, tongue and all—next to her Sam makes an exaggerated gagging sound, but when Nat looks over she sees that he's smiling.

Steve sets Bucky back down— _lifted him right off his feet,_ Nat's pretty sure they'll be teasing Steve about this until the end of days—and then it's really time to go.

They're almost inside when Nat hears it—Sam's voice first, _wipe that smile off your face, loverboy, I still hate you_ —and then Bucky's laugh, clear and sweet as a bell ringing out, echoing off the sun-drenched walls.

It's a sound she could definitely get used to.

 

**END**

Outro: <https://youtu.be/Om40Ltb4gUQ>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Outro video description: A lo-fi acoustic cover of the song I Choose You by Sara Bareilles.


End file.
